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no porto de york novo
eu faço minha saia, mas ninguém sabe
calma como que segundo verĂŁo
sĂŁo idos os trĂŞs, aquelas irmĂŁs raras
eu resido na montanha da tabela
nenhuma rapina Ă© mim de pensamentos pobres
havia trĂŞs no prado pelo ribeiro
da canção e do sonho para ido sempre
pĂ´de tĂŞ-lo sabido na mola mais adiantada
existir da cisne
um pensamento doce solemn

 



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