Layers unknown in the sands
Dark and rich from the tilling of hands
Old cracked fingers red and disfigured
All the time each sand meant something
Minds are not ticking probably
On through heaven and hells
All sorts moving their bodies
Like the mind has its shoutings
Grapes roll around in a bowl
Having found their mouth
No rotten grapes were found.
Dark and rich from the tilling of hands
Old cracked fingers red and disfigured
All the time each sand meant something
Minds are not ticking probably
On through heaven and hells
All sorts moving their bodies
Like the mind has its shoutings
Grapes roll around in a bowl
Having found their mouth
No rotten grapes were found.
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