When i have a dialoque, with J.P and my self. I whas very angry on him . But i still love him, as mine brother, ofcourse, not as my man, but Jim is mine husband, he like him not so mutsh, but he found it also wreely, sorry for me, certanly when we heart he is died. When they play’t Pavarotti, it’s time to say goodbay. I have still moments that i’am a littel nerveus, that song, is not true. He has a job in France and a wife even as a doghter. When we bring him away in his chage, his chage whas open, and my family has no prose for him. Jim and i go for a last look, and it whas him not, even he is still a life. But i have a prose for him, pitty on that moment. You have very good to read. That is the only that i ask from the people.
We should into a cellar on drop of love,
Eachather in and a lag;
The bird slipt about the great grasscountry,
A fress flow about ’t silver gras;
A playing flow, with smel game over,
It life between the tree – smel.
It where still; it’s green
Let of from drop;
No bird flo to see;
The drop go to the rocktop’s,
Where after the east bling;
There sing the May his night – song!
We heart ‘t, and we spoke not.