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memorial poem

raça elevado-carregada
o pitiful pequeno, desgastado, caras rir
minha mãe ensinou-me que cada noite
você pensa, meu menino, quando eu enrolo meus braços em você
o cheiro do levantou-se assim falso, os espinhos assim verdadeiros
meu filho está inoperante e eu sou cortina indo
o que era ele os motores ditos
minha alma é um campo ploughed escuro
pela costa, pelo mar
quando os mar-ventos perfuraram nossos solitudes

 



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