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writing poetry

eu vi que você hunched e tiritando nas pedras
minha mãe ensinou-me que cada noite
caras bonitas, tragical
não seja falso
sombras voadas que varrem perto
o cheiro do levantou-se assim falso, os espinhos assim verdadeiros
em possa
gloom
até sua janela da câmara
quando liberdade de sua altura da montanha
duas fileiras dos repolhos
aflija-se não para o invisível
este é o navio da pérola

 



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