I honor what's real, but never the truth when it hurts. Between what would have hurt and what should have not, a bit of my wit turns to it. A wiggly thing to in mighty ring, that is a superstring. Of course it could have broken been, but that is unfortunate win.
This is its internal mechanics and it belongs to Africa
Five miracles yonder, the strings turns to wonder, no man ever would it have known. Its seeds to have sown in the poorest gown, of spirit for soul to be whole. Each continent ring while the children sing, to wonder a miracle steer. While the miracles it to my mighty wit, a doubt would have never had fit. Faith be the way it will lead us to say; might is the glory of day.
This gown will bloom by a mighty groom, in Africa facing the east. To meet the sun by the glory of one, in feeding his miracle way. To the children song, and the gown to belong, the jewel should ever return. While at first at glance an eternal dance, the delight in this diamond amazes the world. It like ever it never have burned. This light for a flame to have yearned, his wife to return will learn.