Italiano
An old story people told;
The flower; it's blooming.
No one with any sense laid their eyes on this flower,
Those who had were only crying for attention they need.
Won't you spare me over 'til another year? Well, what is this that I can't see? With icy hands gettin' hold of me Well, I am Death, none can excel I open the door to Heaven and Hell |
But believe when I say that the
last flower here has been, blooming before our own eyes.
The flower; it's blooming.
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