In the silence of a night immobile, devoid of stars, the only color is the scent that fills the air, round, who knows of other skies. Every time I think that flower for me. He, the Calicantus, on twigs of dried flowers and explodes outside is not spring. For him there is a problem ... He cared about others. Even if every time the winter seems to end, however, he has the scent to give.
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