Every Night I Send You Flowers by Gabriel Rosenstock - HTML preview
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LXXVII
a shearc, is sine é do thost
ná an t-am féin
agus leánn im’ thostsa
feicimid is ár súile dúnta
fobhair ár gcuid mianta
Your silence, beloved
is older than time itself
it blends with mine
with closed eyes we can see
the wellsprings of our desire