Buried under flowering green,
Aging below shrouded sun,
Lies a garden rarely seen,
To which, when sad, I always run.
Bury my nose in crisp rose blooms,
Let verdance banish the fetid gloom.
As though tears could help us grow,
When they fall for what I want not to know.
Yet harken to the flowers' song.
As they've sipped my sorrow for years,
But tranquilly they go along.
So beautiful is this garden for my tears.
Despair gone, a smile now returns,
Bringing hope, joy, all for which I've ever yearned.
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Sono un peccatore dell'anno ottantamila -- un menzonero
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