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prose poetry

entre o fumo e a névoa de uma tarde de dezembro
sabe uma liberação barata
deixe-me mover-se lentamente através da rua
eu resido na montanha da tabela
deve ir para trás, disse
vinho velho a beber
em seus regimentals ásperos
esse ano
lá pela janela na casa velha
eu nĂŁo queimo nenhum incense
prazeres mid e palácios embora nós podemos vaguear
pouca porta foi alcançada no último

 



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