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esta bacia de prata antiga de meus
em números mournful
entre o fumo e a névoa de uma tarde de dezembro
eu sou uma mulher
splendor doce
não há nenhum rebanho, porém prestado atenção e tendido
eu penso d esplêndido justo
f4-lo ouvem-se sempre de
glooms dos viv-carvalhos
eu fui acima e trago as ruas
os prayers brancos pequenos

 



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