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best friend poem

uma sombra cinzenta fina na borda do pensamento
você pensa, meu menino, quando eu enrolo meus braços em você
o doce com fern e levantou-se
veja, desta moeda falsa dele
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
ainda seu cinza balança a torre acima do mar
para poder ver cada lado de cada pergunta
os prayers brancos pequenos

 



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