When the Embers of Desire Are stirred Passion May leap into Full flame. And it is Too easy To get burned If the fire Is not contained.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt...
Oceans of Heartaches Gather to produce the tears That fall from sad eyes.
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