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black poetry

um pêssego pequeno no pomar cresceu
felicidade
acima do sul na ruptura do dia
glass-blower do tempo
há uma cidade, builded por nenhuma mão
esta é a canção da juventude
há qualquer um lá
se o slayer vermelho pensar slays
quietamente, com reverance, no awe
a escuridão
o que nós fará agora

 



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