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thanksgiving poetry

entre o fumo e a névoa de uma tarde de dezembro
uma sombra cinzenta fina na borda do pensamento
a chuva sobre, e o ar brilhante
com seu cabelo que flaying descontroladamente
agite
para eu era um conselheiro gaunt, grave
conseqüentemente eu não posso
e nse
era muitas e muito um ano há
têm você andar visto através da vila
seu cabelo bonito
apenas como meus dedos nestas chaves
na terra silenciosa

 



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