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acrostic poem

porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
as estrelas caíram do heaven
o dia é feito
o pitiful pequeno, desgastado, caras rir
os dias melancólicos vieram
com vermelho do sangue dos bordos e coração da pedra
paredes e enorme elevados
eu estou morrendo
sol e vento e batida do mar
estes sejam

 



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