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autumn poem

a criança que jogou afastado a folha após a folha
o oeste velho, o tempo velho
eu amo minha vida, mas não demasiado bem
embora eu sou pouco como todas as coisas pequenas
mundo que muda sob minha mão
o movimento do seu corpo é como a música
mas alas, sonhos justos
agora quando meus bordos viverem
eighty anos passaram, e mais
porque o faça sempre carrinho que tirita lá
cai aqui nenhuma luz
há uns ganhos para todas nossas perdas

 



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