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pumpkin poem

era não para esse cheiro singular
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
estourou o vinho feroz
a chuva sobre, e o ar brilhante
sentar-se em seu balancim que espera seu chá
eighty anos passaram, e mais
meu filho está inoperante e eu sou cortina indo
todos quiet ao longo do potomac

 



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