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poem

travails da terra
tropeçando acima, caindo para baixo
nossos momentos agradáveis voam
e pão do breaketh mais
diga-me não
pensamentos através de minha cabeça
em sua barraca guardada
algum queixou-se ao mestre
eu estou morrendo
a fragrância veio
última meia-noite

 



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