Whoever hits the fold of the sea first
Holds any flag from there, points to the sea
And rows
Ã^, it could be that the tide © don't turn
It could be the wind coming against the pier
And if I no longer feel your signs
It could be life getting used to it
Could it be, Morena?
About being alone, I know
In the seas where I walked slowly
Chance was more dedicated to hiding
And now for tomorrow £, where is it?
Sweet the sea, lost in my singing

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