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lyric poetry

uma vez este turf macio
a luz retirada
na esfera
musing, entre o por do sol e a obscuridade
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
eu gosto d
são idos os três, aquelas irmãs raras
para estes braços brancos sobre minha garganta
pôde tê-lo sabido na mola mais adiantada

 



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