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sad poetry

diz de épocas velhas boas
não pendure nenhuma grinalda
a noite era preta e drear
com vermelho do sangue dos bordos e coração da pedra
quando eu era um menino na faculdade
no porto de york novo
quando o véu dos olhos for levantado
noite misteriosa
quem é o corredor nos céus
entre o fumo e a névoa de uma tarde de dezembro
completamente dos rasgos
doubtless eu recordo ainda

 



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