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prose poetry

minha măe twines me as rosas molhadas com orvalho
com seu cabelo que flaying descontroladamente
havia nunca um som ao lado da madeira mas de uma
em algum lugar eu li um tale estranho, velho, oxidado
material da lua
em e sobre
o oeste velho, o tempo velho
splendor doce
diga-me năo

 



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