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i love you poem

bucks pretos gordos em um quarto do vinho-tambor
as montanhas săo povos silenciosos
uma tempestade está montando na maré
era o outono do ano
pouco parque que eu passo completamente
macia weeping
da cançăo e do sonho para ido sempre
babylon -- onde eu vou sonhar
năo pendure nenhuma grinalda
agora que eu lhe esfriei
se eu for muito certo
a festa real foi feita
fala năo bem

 



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