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prose poetry

na esfera
entre o fumo e a névoa de uma tarde de dezembro
você pensa, meu menino, quando eu enrolo meus braços em você
como ele de quem espírito na chama do meio-dia
o sol pisou para baixo de seu throne dourado
não seja falso
o mestre de destinies humanos é mim
um gleam do ouro no gloom e no cinza
diga-me
cai aqui nenhuma luz

 



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