Oh, the Lord, the forgiveness goes to the secret. I never give birth to a child with my wife, never, anywhere, to survive. Tears sag all over the left, and the fear of the soul. With her strange fish, like a human, pity, she moans to the pain. The more you crack, the more hot the fire sparks, the more soft the whine. If the merit of the son inspires the mother to think of the word of forgiveness when she leaves the yogi with a spell, she screams and tears. You're not here to help me. She groaned with never passed out, so i forgot her body as ya pran.
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