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grandma poem

algum queixou-se ao mestre
sad são que sabem não o amor
eu estive
em sua barraca guardada
eu despise meus amigos mais do que você
sol e vento e batida do mar
quando eu era um menino na faculdade
abaixo de minha janela em uma rua da cidade
podem falar do amor em uma casa de campo
a noite era preta e drear
talvez não é nenhuma matéria que você morreu
dentro de minha mão eu prendo
não há nenhum rebanho, porém prestado atenção e tendido

 



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