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father poem

há uns ganhos para todas nossas perdas
com alegria e maravilha
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
três anos há hoje
apenas como meus dedos nestas chaves
entre as montanhas eu vagueei
os corredores de mármore resounding longos
eu faço minha saia, mas ninguém sabe
era muitas e muito um ano há
o pitiful pequeno, desgastado, caras rir
quando eu olhei em seus olhos
eu sou fevered
nós não éramos muitos
quando as horas do dia forem numeradas

 



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