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grandma poem

o pitiful pequeno, desgastado, caras rir
você pensa, meu menino, quando eu enrolo meus braços em você
levantado dos mortos
eu amo minha hora do vento e da luz
entre as montanhas eu vagueei
eu estou no tempo cinzento frio
eu ando abaixo os trajetos do jardim
minha măe ensinou-me que cada noite
rosas e ouro
quando os mar-ventos perfuraram nossos solitudes
eu estou morrendo
eu năo queimo nenhum incense

 



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