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love poetry

flores dos bebês
porque
um pêssego pequeno no pomar cresceu
mulher boa
o justo e stately empregada doméstica, cujos olhos
deus
eu estou no amor com lugares far-seeing elevados
eu estou cantando-lhe
serene da tarde e brilhante verdes
limps com parar o ritmo doloroso
se eu for muito certo
as montanhas são povos silenciosos
temos nós nenhum shame?

 



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