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melancolia, azul era
há uns ganhos para todas nossas perdas
os poetas dizem
eu encho este copo
pouca porta foi alcançada no último
embora repine do amor, e chafe da razăo
eu năo posso dizę-lo agora
na terra silenciosa
qual se mantem
apenas como meus dedos nestas chaves
esta bacia de prata antiga de meus
quando, cheio do amor morno e ansioso
eu sei o que vocę está indo dizer

 



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