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father poem

o que nós fará agora
não pendure nenhuma grinalda
macia agora a luz do dia
talvez não é nenhuma matéria que você morreu
o mestre de destinies humanos é mim
eu estou cantando-lhe
uma tempestade está montando na maré
os prayers brancos pequenos
há uns ganhos para todas nossas perdas

 



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