Each encrusted shell, which is in that cave where we loved, has its own peculiarities. One, our soul has the purple that has sucked the blood, our hearts, and when I burn you in the fire blaze. Another, imitate you in your languor, and in your pallor of when, tired; are you mad at me because I mocking eyes. This makes the mirror, how you wrap yourself in the grace of your ear; another, however, the tender and short neck rose. But only one, among all, upsets me.