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death poetry

esta bacia de prata antiga de meus
lá pela janela na casa velha
amigo, cujo o sorriso veio ser
eu faço minha saia, mas ninguém sabe
eu sou uma mulher
há um país completamente do vinho
como deva mim ajude à direita ao mundo que está indo erradamente
eu penso d esplĂŞndido justo

 



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