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memorial poem

splendor doce
o prado estava rastejando
eu năo posso dizę-lo agora
talvez năo é nenhuma matéria que vocę morreu
faça os meninos e as meninas văo ainda
quem estará nomeando o vento
melancolia, azul era
flores dos bebęs
eu vi que vocę hunched e tiritando nas pedras
se eu for muito certo

 



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