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sad poem

quando liberdade de sua altura da montanha
como selvagem, como bruxa-como estranho que a vida deve ser
glass-blower do tempo
e nse
flores dos bebês
não do mundo largo do todo
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
era não para esse cheiro singular
truely
dê-me
esta bacia de prata antiga de meus
escuro-eyed

 



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