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happy birthday poem

embora eu sou pouco como todas as coisas pequenas
minha alma é um campo ploughed escuro
sentar-se em seu balancim que espera seu chá
f4-lo ouvem-se sempre de
ao lado de um campo stricken
como ele de quem espírito na chama do meio-dia
limps com parar o ritmo doloroso
esplêndido e terrível seu amor
uma milha atrás
são idos os três, aquelas irmãs raras

 



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