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Ludovico Einaudi Writing Poems

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Writing Poems by Ludovico Einaudi Piano Solo - Digital Sheet Music

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  • Artist Ludovico Einaudi
  • Composer Ludovico Einaudi
  • Format Digital Sheet Music
  • Arrangement Piano Solo
  • Publisher Hal Leonard Europe
  • Range B3 - A5
  • Product ID 113391
  • Instruments Piano/Keyboard

writing poems ludovico einaudi

Poster Butterfly

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We asked listeners to write poems inspired by Ludovico Einaudi's “Golden Butterflies.” Read their submissions while you listen to the piece.

A pause, a respite. A brief pause, a quiet respite. A quiet pause, a brief respite. One quiet, brief pause. One brief, quiet respite. Quiet. Brief. Momentary. Hushed. Pause, respite. Brief. Quiet. Silent.

— Conor Cook, Chaska

Golden Butterflies, after Ludovico Einaudi

Where is your heart today, today that the early spring has brought unbidden.

Where there is darkness light the saint said, undisturbed as in the wood flocks of flames poured from his mouth and he on his knees incandesced.

— Jennifer Manion, Minneapolis

April snowflakes begin to fall, gently, as though they're just a bit shy It's a peaceful sight, as they drift and dance dizzily from the clouded sky. They spiral down, then caught on a breeze, they soon turn into a flurry, It's spring now, and hope is strong, so we're confident they'll melt in a hurry. Gazing at wilted ground, are signs of life pushing up from deep below, Bright green shoots, eager to soak up the sun, are inching up through the white snow. Like nature, we must share that same faith, find strength to continue each day, And when times are trying, we must lift up one another along the way.

— Juliana Scacherer, Litchfield

A time for light A time for space A time for bright A time for safe

A time to breathe A time to feel A time to sigh A time that's real

A time to run A time to leap A dreamy time I find in sleep

A time that's not So long ago A time familiar A time I know

A time I knew A time I was A time I'll see Again, because

The time is near Though not quite now I'll feel the sun Again, somehow

When I emerge The time will be

A time for me

— Annabelle Salas, St. Paul

Summer songs recall, What long ago you let fall, In life, love is all.

— Walter Roers, Bloomington

Walking families Seek in nature escape, health- Walking, walking, free.

— Traci Juhala, Bismarck

~Inspired by Golden Butterflies~

The thrower sits silently, alone at her wheel. A twinkle in her eye. As delicate fingers travel gently along the clay, physically as well as in the mind, meditating on what new life could be.

At once, it begins. Playfully rising up, like a butterfly riding the wind; firmly pressing down, knowing this is part of the game. Changing shape, but topologically still the same.

Then without warning, as if collapsing to the ground, a feeling deep in her stomach: she knows she's lost it. A long sigh desperation- and exhaustion setting in.

Sometimes you simply have to sit, wait, be still. The feeling returns, stronger than ever. Blooming like a cosmic flower that's been waiting eternity for spring. Wild winds blowing colorful pedals off into the unknown, the artist attempts to hang on.

And as the turbulence subsides, this graceful creature lands next to her; indifferent at first, then like the Madonna to child: a glimpse of utter peace, as it offers itself to the world.

— Brandon Russell, St. Paul

Still Spring

A fresh breath of clean. A whisper of green means spring. Small tendrils of bean and fresh worm cuisine. Wrens sing. When nothing's routine, they still peck and preen. Take wing!

— Laura Salas, St. Paul

In one version of the story, The Apostles, except for John, all ran--I was going to say like hell-- when the hammering began, and they could smell the blood beneath the darkening, churning clouds. In a book I've lost, I once read another version in which Dismas, while hearing the sounds of Gestas the impenitent, screaming, and Jesus just trying to catch his breath, saw them running toward something, running bravely to the points of intersection their Teacher had already illuminated for them.

Dismas watched Saul watching Stephen who testified before the Sanhedrin. He saw the first flung stone that nudged him to sleep under a sky that was blue, without clouds.

Dismas saw the world turned upside down, As Peter did, crucified, feet pointed towards Heaven, while the pouring rain soaked his beard.

He saw the head of Paul, saw in the dust of Calvary, the club for Jude, the knife for Thomas, and saw the wind blowing on the footprints of Bartholomew in Armenia.

As the earthquake began, the Good Thief Dismas, running nowhere with his broken legs, saw before he closed his eyes, an opportunity reserved only for him. For everyone else in the story, He was Teacher, Rabbi, Master, but for Dismas, the end of all desires was to breathe Yeshua. And he did, again, and then again.

— Jeff Johnson, Avon

The screen door slapped it's crooked frame As bare feet skimmed down three wooden steps And across a cobbled path till they cringed as cuts filled with eager grains of gravel from the dusty road. Weak tears of protest crawled from my eyes as each foot dug fast into the shifting dirt till I reached the hill top field of Black-Eyed Susan's. Wading deep into the waist high crowd of green and yellow my arms stretched east and west. Fingertips brushed buttery leather blooms as a breeze picked up. A dark bird darted by as I twirled like a child, arms still outstretched till my toe caught a root. I collapsed into a Brigid's cross of limbs amongst the scratchy green stalks. How long I lay there, I'm unaware. Long enough for the sun to saunter well past its zenith and a curious tongue brush my cheek. Garter snakes, warmed on the stone of my body, started and slithered into the haloed safety of my hair, then braided themselves into the broken stalks below While the white flock of clouds above turned stone gray with the opening of my hazel eyes beneath the golden flowers dancing like honeyed butterflies.

— Mary Appold, St. Paul

the little dog by the window fills my heart with tears watching her family leave paws on the sill crying softly scratching at the door wanting her love back

— Jay Coleman, Madison

"Golden Butterflies:" a dog's perspective

Thunder lies behind the dark orchestral 4 a.m. hour Rain smells near, that sweet twinging tympani that rightly scares the birds A stream of light, seconds too long, spreads from window to window repeating patterns of the piano, drip-drop gentle intro to the storm the swirling violin, the wind of the cello crescendos even more

Melodies blanket the early morning until red cardinal's staccato, staccato, legato as the sunlight breaks There, among early spring greens, crawls the monarch caterpillar waiting for the percussion's fluttering ostinato of wings soon to burst from its cocoon when I can chase, through the afternoon sunlight, the vibrant butterflies of summer and stretch out semibreve in the timbre tall grass.

— Kristie Smith, Stillwater

Droplets of unshed tears fall upon keys forgotten and tucked away in the in the hope of looking back upon better yesterdays not bearing the hats we wear to hide but the ones to simply highlight whats inside tarnished moths, with a buttered fly dreams, of waking up to a clear night sky falling upwards on these broken butterfly dreams of restful resurrections from evening naps in the arms of a hope that sings rushing forward in this vacuous spring with little panted baby steps creeping round a wandered thought wondering what newness the heavens have wrought. Ironing out the details day by day moment by moment each owning unended etudes

— Peter Eschweiler, Golden Valley

Bare foot, leaping through the grass My eyes on a butterfly swooping past For its wings are golden, and as thin as glass The most beautiful sight that i have ever seen How could I possibly intervene So towards my house I start to lean But as I start to turn away The butterfly comes to me as if saying, "you stay?" I shrug my shoulders. "Okay okay!"

— Sophie Milstein, Shorewood

I Offer You This Plant for Your Birthday

Ten thousand glowing embers from the Cancer constellation are shaken in a tumbler cast and scattered across the city, its own kind of forest, each building guarded by bark of stone brick aluminum siding glass.

You are action potentials'first bloom shy' yet, you pull me across the couch shifting our spark-charged embrace into a silent two-step in the rented living room. Your lips are curious cotton butterflies, the salty taste of water on inked leaves.

We share an orange walk in the nectar of a Southern afternoon past trees whose names are all known to you. Histories healed, glassy and tamed by the noble Potomac's silver repetition, your voice refines the sonority of the Falls.

For two people who hardly shut up, a conversational departure escapes us at DCA. I don't know if this plant has roots, but we left some seeds between the cracks in the sidewalk. Perhaps you'll always think of me now on your birthday

— Valerie Little, Minneapolis

String Duet

Delicate like the strands of a spider's web; Strong like the fence's wrought-iron bar; Quiet like the Spirit's Soul at rest; Bright like lights that help us see so far;

Thus, the fragrance fills the room and settles on the ears of those who choose to see Enlightening the corners, dark and doleful; Bringing us to all the places where we'd rather be.

— Webb, St. Paul

When Humans Make Cocoons

We watch our finger tips as they slide around each others' backside. Mine search and find the tautness of the muscles near your spine. I feel your palms on my shoulders.

Our heads glance off each other as we smell the oils and essence of the other. Damp breath bathes our necks.

As we pull closer our heads touch again. We feel the rise and fall of each others' chest. Our hearts beat in tandem as we share our warmth and energy.

Then we each open our arms and slowly let go while gazing into each others' eyes exchanging smiles and comforting words as we emerge from the cocoon we have just constructed for each other.

— Michael Kluznik, Mendota Heights

Butterfly Church

A yellow butterfly landed on a garden lily

and poked its long proboscis into the blossom's funnel.

With ease and grace the Monarch flew from one blossom to another

pollinating each incidentally while sucking its sweet nectar.

Wide-spread wings of yellow gold blended into blossom's color

revealing on each petal plane a pattern of fine black lines

like panes of stained glass windows facing up to heaven

and I breathed again Amen

— Martha Solow, Lebanon

What primeval pleasure he derives from poking the coals and stoking the fire in the small cast iron stove. No longer able to kneel, he sits in a chair by the hearth to add a log and prod those charred. He spreads his gnarled fingers to warm them, then folding his ancient hand in his lap, pleased with the dance of the flames, He leans back in his chair, nods his approval and sleeps.

— Tracy Madison, Lodi

She sat by the shore and scooped the sand into her hand Holding it like a universe, she let the bits grace her palm for one soft moment. Looking at them with a scrupulous fogged eye, She tilted her head to focus in on each morsel. And then, Remembering the warm summers of youth, she smiled a wicked smile And spread her fingers open Letting go of the kiss that changed the direction of the wind, And her life.

— Laura Martin, Braham

My paddle dips Into the silky stillness Paddle and arm become Partners propelling us To a wilderness Where there's only calm And the nurture Of nature.

— Kay Erickson, Lakeville

When butterflies fly it is not with the sprawling confidence of eagles but faith in the constant of air, a breath to lift their desperately flapping, delicate wings.

— Laura Shelter, Northfield

Solidarity in Solitary My fingers are feet Solitary footsteps I change the beat

Paired together now No longer alone Swept down the black and white ivories My feet carry the tone

Until reverberating strings challenge the tempo Transition from sullen to a warm home Let's dance from a distance, no embrace I open my eyes, I'm no longer alone

— David Roers, Bloomington

Butterfly, You fly around the world. The things you see must be beyond compare. You start as small caterpillar, Confined to the tree that you call home. 'Til one day you grow up, with wings as big as tear drops, You fly. First only a flutter, Then faster and faster. Things zoom by. Your wings carry you to amazing places and amazing people. You bring joy and comfort, everywhere you go. But, before you know it, Your wings start to soften, You have lived a good life. But nothing can stay good forever. As your wings slow down you find a quiet resting place. You watch as the world begins to fade away. But, don't worry, Your will be remembered, As greatness, Butterfly.

— Savannah Switzer, Apple Valley

I am slumped here before the computer Like a frog waiting for the dragonfly To flit by and inspiration snatched up Curled around the lengthy reach of frog tongue Who pauses, then swallows with a smug grin. Frogs are that way you know, and so am I But though I wait for tardy dragonfly None fly by and the opportunity To benefit from its trajectory Leaves me slumping more while this day passes

— Carrie Wasley, St. Paul

Sheltering in Place

He waits. His mother holds her breath, hearing the news. Eight long months to go, his perfect limbs begin to bud. A yellow baby blanket, here on the outside, Begins with a hundred stitches, Cast on with love.

He begins to dance. His Maker begins to knit. Basking in the warmth of amniotic fluid surrounding him, He stretches out newly-formed fingers, Bounces against soft walls, And smiles.

His father prays: 'Almighty God, Whose fingers placed the stars, No tiny tombstone for this one, please?!' He steadies her beating heart, Does his best to wipe away her fears, And bravely sends her off to her night shift.

He listens. He hears her sing, courageously, into the darkness. Her heartbeat is his lullaby. He waves gently, and she smiles, Through tears. He sleeps.

We prepare our prayerful welcome. The blanket's almost done. The Maker's masterpiece still hidden from our eyes, The world on pause, and sheltering in place, Expecting you, We wait.

— Deborah Reece, Zimmerman

The iron guards stare at me through their crystal eyes. They fence my limbs to save me from pain and are amazed by the perfect rhythm that my chest is set to follow. Oxygen is my escape, and therefore I throw a rope for it to tie myself around him. The room begins to turn and tosses with me, following a childhood chant that tells us stories about witches and midnight wonderers. I breathe heavily, and it is my breath what keeps us spinning; me, my room and oxygen. I can't tell if we are leaving the atmosphere or not. The universe remained silent as we passed by and we didn't mind asking. The knot is starting to tremble and, as I feel the laces leaving my waist, I stretch desperately to hold them. Both ends elude me. I have seen the sun during our encounter and I don't want to leave; I'm cold. My head bounced against the mattress. The speed of sound caught me as I fell, but I was too infinite for it to embrace me. The guards retreat once again to admire my poise in all its glory. Am I still here?

— Valeria Devoto, Buenos Aires

Like a whisper set upon a breeze Wings that flutter softly seem An ephemeral fragrance aimed to tease Out memories of haunts long ago seen.

Like a hint of fragrance from afar, Like ghostly notes on ivory keys, Like fading glimmers of distant stars, The sight of flitting wings so quickly flees.

If a glance were ever to be a gaze, The colored patterns painted so precisely On wings that beat like water's waves Would appear to gleam like glass from sea.

Broken shards by storms and lulls now smoothed Rest as treasures upon the present shore Like painful memories with time subdued Now glimmers wing'd hope where hurt before.

The little creature takes its flighted course From rippled shadows to dappled bowers Wending its way to the fragrant source Jewels of the sun-breathing earth, the flowers.

As delicate as the innocence of youth As multicolored and fleeting as raw emotion The little creature wends it winged way As though a whisper set upon a breeze.

— Sarah Hamrin, Bemidji

Golden Butterflies

Somewhere between Flora and Paradise I sped along a forgotten highway The sun shown bright as I looked at a thread of water far below The canyon walls loomed all around me And the cold March day Felt suddenly like July The wind calmed and stopped And sleepiness drifted over As I lay in the gravel looking at the sky A solitary butterfly The first of the year Came into view Soon more A wave Of golden butterflies

— Jonathan Greif, La Grande

A Path Unknown

Once upon a starry day, when flowered hills reflected a wing-laced sky, I look above living leaves floating, and falling.

Each beat an echoing whisper moving along a path unknown. To where they go, I know not; From whence they came is beyond my gaze.

But as these echoes fade from sight, a Question, once unanswered, answers me now, more quiet than the gentle wind. 'Yes!', He laughs. 'There is magic.'"

— Ambrose Greif, La Grande

So Worried Was I

I had forgotten all about the leaves

whispering green, wakening branch, tap dance of buoyant spring.

Forgotten how the arc of seasons rises from the dark

how the light breeze, soft as prayer,

yet has power enough to ease the grip of winter's dread

and loosen like fingers from a careful fist

my need to look ahead. Spring's summons is

be here instead, be open to surprise.

Today new leaves are opening

— Marg Walker, St. Paul

Earthborn angel, Dazzle me with your lovely dancing colors, as I contemplate your existence. A lovely miracle.

— Stanley Owens, Duluth

Aspen Mountain Morning

Golden light climbing over the ridge line Softly kisses the trees Bringing a warm glow to silver-white boles. Heart-shaped leaves dance in a gentle breeze Sunlight shimmers and sparkles Green and gold, emerald and topaz. The dancing leaves whisper together, Sharing secrets ancient and eternal. The trees know the mysteries of the ages If we take time to listen, They will share them with us.

— Ann Maria Mattila, Rock Springs

My days of sauntering through the routines of quarantine drown me like torrential rain. I try to hide in the night, beleaguered by the pains of the time, but the resounding rain wakes me. It beckons me to come to the storm. In the rain away from others, I let the cascading water cleanse me. When the eye of the storm comes, I see the scabrous branches of trees with infant blooms like a coiffure. Between the jagged branches, budding with life, and the wind chime without a knell, I stand in the mollifying night. The cloud that covers the moon like dark muslin drifts away. Brighter than the day, the moon is like an iridescent iris. I dance and sway without the ringing wind in my ears. When the sun rises, I return to my routine and brace for the day, then from my window, I see. There, the jagged branches and their burgeoning blooms sparkle with diamond beads of rain that light my way. I feel no more the poison of a dawning morn

— Ariel Brown, Baltimore

No one comes to butterflies but by me, Said the caterpillar softly, of course; But surely, slowly, inevitably, We arrive, in color, with little force.

There's nothing magical, of drama none; But quiet change of form from furred creature Climbing stems to life enwrapped in cocoon, Dormant waiting my dominant feature.

While inside a woven web, soft, not dense, Whatever happens, being, becoming, Does so without outside interference, Self-alteration, a new form forming.

You may wonder who I am in that time Of thread-wrapped change, and am I pleased or scared As I no longer crawl and lose this prime Way of being, an act no one else dared. In cocoon-wrapped moments I give no thought If where I am is proper to my end, Or a place strange to be from furry start; Form alters apace, a-thread, change contained.

Change contained, cocooned, with what was given; Nothing added to bring these wings about From what wove a softness for its living And its becoming, in time to come out.

All that is needed is in softness held, Unseen within, the destiny of flight Latent in genes, inherently propelled, - Time after time, by nature's gentle might.

— Wayne Albertson, Richfield

Ours, ours to own

how it nestles us

the over and over

our flight of breath

slight enough

to flourish

bends our attention

to echo to shift to pause

the cello knows shifting

is not other

but essential

shows us the open

window curtains

the long view

ours to own

— Suzanne Swanson, St. Paul

Summer Adieu

Lavish and fragrant filled with wild wires of lightning great punches to follow Fruitful Insectful Hay is making sneezing universal all this is commonly true Satisfactions beyond number Fisherman get their catch food delicious real the sail has just enough wind when country children play riotously and hardly persuaded to remember the necessity of sleep while fireflies are blinking as high as bedroom windows people on porches exhausted beneficent now less ambitious than any season so filled with the beautiful cloudy stuff of summertime dreams Summer So poets in this fullness write of wonder touch taste & tenderness of earth clothed in leaves and flowers tenderness too of love grows from stinging desires of spring to intimate agreements of summer Poet Mary Sarton speaks of summer golden buttercup wild summer Thoreau of the visible heat Dylan Thomas says a young boy turns green and golden the poetry of earth is never dead says Keats Affirmation and PROTEST which every year as summer wanes we must come to I have come to Dark window through which every summer wanes every summer drains We must come to A meditation on time and place and time and change.

— Cate Belleveau, Puposky

Minimalist Butterfly

I'm a hybrid of the Grizzled Skipper, the Pygmy Blue, and possibly Steve Reich, though that lineage is the subject of controversy.

You'll notice, I don't range as far or as free as my kindred types, with their flutter and sport, their directionless search for nectar. Rather,

I do my best work one step of flight at a time --ascending, light, then back down, repeat and repeat. No herky jerky melody,

like other flying bugs. No harmonic complication, but predictable, as if to make a point. But what is the point? Glad you asked! But I can't answer.

Somewhere after the mourning cello and the piano's ostinato, I come to rest -- perhaps on the pianist's right hand, which has been working even less hard

than I have, or than the left. But is it music? Ask the entomologists; they're the ones who wrote the program notes.

They say the meadow is filled with audience, very much live. And the audience is filled with meadow, on one day of seven the composer went for an ambient walk.

And you, listener? You can go along with us or shelter in place in peace. As you like.

— Richard Terrill, New Hope

Dancing. On and on and the wind is your partner. Over and through my open soul. Where is the end of the dance? Only when I close my eyes.

— Jason Ochocki, Cannon Falls

My heart begins the song, my spirit follows into the light that the music brings to my soul.

My soul crave the light and the lovely sounds that feed the yearning for love.

Love flows from the generosity of my heart, my spirit, my soul.

They, together, are bringing love and comfort to others because of the notes of a song we can all sing as one.

— Suzanne McLaughlin, St. Michael

Mom flew in today. Five years since she died.

So imagine just imagine when I beheld this sweetest old lady dusting off wings (gritty and gold) rattling on and on about traffic....up there.

She bubbles, chatters, settles a-fluff... Her eyes catch mine.

Mom, I say....Mom.... She says....Dear one.... and strokes my hair and says it's a mess and I say I know and she says I need her and I say I know and she says it's okay and I say I know

It's okay...

I reach toward her face --

then awaken, my arms flung open.

The air moves gently as if on command -- to bring lift to gritty and golden wings

— Kristi Larsen, Atlanta

Knowing I am made of dirt and water

It's a wonder to watch Spring

Our mother the earth

Blanket recedes

Brown, black, red absorb

Warms with our other mother the sun

Water trills across frozen fields

— Michael Resman, Rochester

The butterfly drifts down through the air, Her head is held high as she lands, Her mind is free from all wordly care As she settles in a child's cupped hands.

The child's laughing eyes draw near, and intently peer at the golden design, Tracing every black line, dark and pure, Each speck of gold seeming to shine, Both are unique, but the same in a way, Both innocent of sorrows, oblivious of pain, Fearful, not now, nor of the coming day, Radiantly beautiful, but neither is vain.

— Rosalyn Greif, La Grande

Dreaming out the window on a cold MN spring day Snowflakes dancing twittering in the wind Up and down like the wings of a butterfly.

Oh lovely butterfly come to me again.

My flowers will be waiting for your landing your gentle touch upon each petal your wings glowing vibrating in the sweet morning light

Til you lift again and disappear

— Lin Mulhern, Minnetonka

To Begin Softly Knowing not what Lies beyond the leaf

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歌手: Ludovico Einaudi

所属专辑: Intouchables (La Bande Originale du Film)

电影原声 《无法触碰/触不可及》


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writing poems ludovico einaudi

【触不可及OST】电影原声集 Les Intouchables【鲁多维科·艾奥迪 Ludovico Einaudi 】




《触不可及》片尾曲:Una Mattina-Ludovico Einaudi

Fly <触不可及>电影原声-Ludovico Einaudi

触不可及 电影 原声集

【蓝光花絮/720P】触不可及 Intouchables (2011)

触不可及电影完整原声INTOUCHABLES - FULL Original Movie Soundtrack OST - [HQ]

【鲁多维科·艾奥迪 Ludovico Einaudi 经典音乐全集 钢琴曲 读书 舒缓 放松 夜读 思考 助眠 BGM 减压 音乐鉴赏 演奏曲目 古典音乐选集】

《触不可及》主题曲 Una Mattina 8bit版





Ludovico Einaudi-Una Mattina - Pavel Velchev & Dmitriy Rs Versi

Nuvole Bianche(白云),作曲、演奏: Ludovico Einaudi (鲁多维科・艾奥迪)

意大利极简主义/当代古典音乐家 Ludovico Einaudi 现场合集



【触不可及】最喜欢的片段 跟着抖了起来呢

百万级装备试听Experience - Ludovico Einaudi , 鲁多维科·艾奥迪【Hi-Res】


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  13. Classical Poetry: Read poems inspired by Ludovico Einaudi's 'Golden

    Golden Butterflies, after Ludovico Einaudi. unbidden. incandesced. It's a peaceful sight, as they drift and dance dizzily from the clouded sky. It's spring now, and hope is strong, so we're confident they'll melt in a hurry. Bright green shoots, eager to soak up the sun, are inching up through the white snow. And when times are trying, we must ...

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    Ludovico Einaudi — Writing Poems · Playlist · 3 songs · 51 likes


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    歌曲名《Writing poems》,由 Ludovico Einaudi 演唱,收录于《Intouchables (La Bande Originale du Film)》专辑中。 《Writing poems》下载,《Writing poems》在线试听,更多相关歌曲推荐尽在网易云音乐

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  21. Les Intouchables (2011) Soundtrack

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