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Without rest, perhaps without pauses or stops

As he tickles her strands with timely drops

Gold, her hair, milk, her skin

Down to her body, smooth and thin

Most of the time, she sleeps by his side

Forget about the blanket that’s open wide

Weekdays, he’s alone in a white prism

Bored and forsaken, just alive in rhythm

She can’t talk nor cry, she knows nothing

But she’s not deaf nor ignorant in feeling

She’s special in her own unique way

In her angelic lullaby that no one could ever play

Sweet melody, flowing through his ears

Symphony, that’s the only one he hears

She always loves to whistle, as he caresses her body

Tempo, beat, hands strum so moody

He summon her into his arms

To hear his beats and charms

Only a time when he misses erstwhile Andrea

To get his guitar embraced in warmth,raised as Franchesca.


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