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acrostic poem

uma tempestade está montando na maré
a filha, arte do thou vem morrer
minha mãe twines me as rosas molhadas com orvalho
a o que uma mulher a comparará beloved
quem ama a chuva
nenhuma rapina é mim de pensamentos pobres
os navios estão encontrando-se na baía
o ar está cheio do alvorecer e da mola

 



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