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mother poem

o ar é como uma borboleta
sono doce em suas sepulturas humble
têm você andar visto através da vila
perguntam-me onde eu estive
os drowses pálidos do dia no ocidental embebem
mas eu não posso lê-lo agora
o céu
homem frio stern
esteja em mim como os modos eternal
sentar-se em seu balancim que espera seu chá
calma como que segundo verão
nós colocamos

 



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