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minha mãe ensinou-me que cada noite
havia três no prado pelo ribeiro
quando o véu dos olhos for levantado
o cheiro do levantou-se assim falso, os espinhos assim verdadeiros
como águias na elevação ascendente
esta é a canção da juventude
entre o fumo e a névoa de uma tarde de dezembro
doubtless eu recordo ainda
a agonia de ter demasiado poder
quando liberdade de sua altura da montanha
as estrelas caíram do heaven
temos nós nenhum shame?

 



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