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sorry poem

um pêssego pequeno no pomar cresceu
eu faço minha saia, mas ninguém sabe
eu gosto d
pouco parque que eu passo completamente
estourou o vinho feroz
o prado estava rastejando
dentro de minha mão eu prendo
deixe-me mover-se lentamente através da rua
da canção e do sonho para ido sempre
uma pena do aço
os dias melancólicos vieram
há três maneiras em que os homens fazem exame

 



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