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eu despise meus amigos mais do que você
não pendure nenhuma grinalda
os poetas dizem
apenas agora
três anos há hoje
embora repine do amor, e chafe da razão
seja paciente, vida, quando o amor está na porta
três dias eu ouvi-os afligir-se quando eu coloco absolutamente
sob a lua da colheita
a festa real foi feita
para trás, gire para trás
acima dos prados ricos com milho
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte

 



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