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life poetry

há uma cidade, builded por nenhuma mão
vinho velho a beber
vindo para baixo no alvorecer dos montes windless
meu filho está inoperante e eu sou cortina indo
eu estou morrendo
o sol está acima
sobre os rooftops compita as sombras das nuvens
os dias melancólicos vieram
nenhuma rapina é mim de pensamentos pobres

 



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