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short poem

porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
na esfera
como ela
eu amo roubar por algum tempo afastado
um olhar é mas um raio
esta bacia de prata antiga de meus
o pitiful pequeno, desgastado, caras rir
como um homem despido mim vai
pássaros de encontro ao vento de abril
frequentemente eu penso da cidade bonita
entre as montanhas eu vagueei

 



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