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sad poetry

frequentemente eu penso da cidade bonita
deixe-me mover-se lentamente através da rua
o que nós fará agora
macia weeping
na terra silenciosa
ouviu as crianças jogar no sol
com vermelho do sangue dos bordos e coraçăo da pedra
a filha, arte do thou vem morrer
levantado dos mortos

 



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