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mom poem

sentar-se em seu balancim que espera seu chá
pouca porta foi alcançada no último
como ela
sombras voadas que varrem perto
qual se mantem
havia três no prado pelo ribeiro
na meia-noite
um céu que nunca soubesse o sol, a lua ou as estrelas
acima deles todos, olhando para baixo
era não para esse cheiro singular

 



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