Una Sibilla Una Sibilla Hark back to the testing days. You made your mark in the sky throned on cloudsplayed rays.
Thought is a curdled belt, informing serenity of a shapely waste, of timed reflux of mentality.
Not your habit to writhe fascistically, wring the blood of stigmatism, flout a story. Yet the parchment quenches a studious thirst for prayer, benevolence for enamorata in the stalls.