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são idos os três, aquelas irmãs raras
há uma hora do descanso calmo
as verdades terríveis estes sejam
eu sou velho e cego
no porto de york novo
uma palavra do vôo de aqui e lá
meu filho está inoperante e eu sou cortina indo
sob uma árvore espalhando da castanha
desde que, se você estiver por meu lado hoje
não gire sua cabeça
com alegria e maravilha
pela ponte rude

 



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