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anniversary poetry

o prado estava rastejando
eu faço minha saia, mas ninguém sabe
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
os dias hypocritic
flor branca da espuma, flor vermelha da flama
nas manhãs nuvem-cinzentas
há uma cidade, builded por nenhuma mão
antes do saint de bronze solemn
envolva a terra no tempo cloudy
a chuva sobre, e o ar brilhante
composto do loveliness sozinho

 



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