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os poetas dizem
vocę ouve a chuva?
abaixo de minha janela em uma rua da cidade
nobility da morte outra vez
minha alma é um campo ploughed escuro
os dias hypocritic
acima dos prados ricos com milho
com os olhos meek, marrons
as máscaras da noite estavam caindo rapidamente
quando uma açăo for feita para a liberdade
trançado e tecido
agora para uma luta viva e cheerful
com seu cabelo que flaying descontroladamente

 



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