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sad death poem

um pássaro cantou
o que mim lhe devem
em seus braços estava o prazer imóvel
este é o arsenal
cara esposa
minha mãe twines me as rosas molhadas com orvalho
bonito
são idos os três, aquelas irmãs raras
entre o fumo e a névoa de uma tarde de dezembro
ainda treze anos
abaixo do helm do guerreiro
têm você não ouvido
nós que estiveram
irmão, eu sou fogo

 



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