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grandmother poem

há uma cidade, builded por nenhuma mão
a escuridão rola para cima
glooms dos viv-carvalhos
laranjas arrancando nubian azul-pretas
sadly falando
gloom
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
eu agito meu cabelo no vento da manhã
cão do gingham e o gato do calico
glass-blower do tempo
levantou-se e o âmbar era o por do sol no rio
eu faço minha saia, mas ninguém sabe
como um homem despido mim vai
a agonia de ter demasiado poder

 



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