Voice from a Flower
Private Majesty’s song forgotten, Acrid count’nces smother hope. From small to rapture puzzling fairies do sprinkle tonic, Letting soul abide this wandrous phase, Thru understanding naught, or what gentle seamstress sows.
Private Majesty’s song forgotten, Acrid count’nces smother hope. From small to rapture puzzling fairies do sprinkle tonic, Letting soul abide this wandrous phase, Thru understanding naught, or what gentle seamstress sows.