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african american poetry

a escuridão
em sua barraca guardada
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
eu amo minha hora do vento e da luz
no porto de york novo
doce e forte
alguns dias mais ventosos
eu sou o vento que wavers
da canção e do sonho para ido sempre
para estes braços brancos sobre minha garganta
quando liberdade de sua altura da montanha

 



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