Flickering flame from wick palm oil lamp at the wooden window sill illuminate the moonlight-dimly room. The whistle of crispy wind could be heard from distance. The iroko tree against which the little house rest, from thence thus sing the birds of time-shadow. Against all hope....There they cuddle in lover mood while corporal instinct was keen yet lust was not able to lord over them in the still of the night. Silence was enough for speech, flickering eyelid for sight, cause in closed eyes is earnest dream possible.
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