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death poem

nós quebramos o vidro cujo vinho sacred
sua cara é justa e lisa e fina
não do mundo largo do todo
se o slayer vermelho pensar slays
esta bacia de prata antiga de meus
pouca porta foi alcançada no último
eu disse
veio fazer exame de me pela mão
como deva mim ajude à direita ao mundo que está indo erradamente
paredes e enorme elevados
era muitas e muito um ano há
algum queixou-se ao mestre

 



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