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sad poem

frequentemente eu penso da cidade bonita
uma palavra do vôo de aqui e lá
macia weeping
a senhora, seu coração girou para a poeira
embora eu sou pouco como todas as coisas pequenas
evidenciado no glimmer em seus olhos
lá pela janela na casa velha
os poetas dizem
não esteja irritado com mim
eu agito meu cabelo no vento da manhã
filhas do tempo

 



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