A DEWY PULP

The weather are running

Rechange the lamblack in gloomy face of the night sky..

Then, morning is starting split up in the middle of our banquet

Any a dewy pulp in your morning face

One a one tears the dryness my soul at the afternoon become inflamed, the twilight is olding, or the night closed..

Your dewy pulp in your morning face is the point of my deep missness right now