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poem for pastors

eu agito meu cabelo no vento da manhã
é frequentemente não assim?
bucks pretos gordos em um quarto do vinho-tambor
sol e vento e batida do mar
não gire sua cabeça
tem um espaço livre, loveliness vento-protegido
a escuridão rola para cima
um por um, como sae de uma árvore

 



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