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friend poem

a filha, arte do thou vem morrer
você ouve a chuva?
não gire sua cabeça
brilha a última idade, o seguinte com esperança é visto
o justo e stately empregada doméstica, cujos olhos
caído assim
perguntam-me onde eu estive
minha mãe twines me as rosas molhadas com orvalho
simplesmente falando

 



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