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mother poem

a neve sussurra sobre mim
cidade que não é uma cidade
eu amo minha hora do vento e da luz
flores dos bebês
esta bacia de prata antiga de meus
o que era ele os motores ditos
agora para uma luta viva e cheerful
sabe uma liberação barata
eu ando abaixo os trajetos do jardim
e assim vai
receoso não mais, eu digo

 



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