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gothic poetry

rode-me para baixo pelo prado
são idos os três, aquelas irmãs raras
eu agito meu cabelo no vento da manhã
eu amo minha hora do vento e da luz
teria mesmo seu gracejo
e pão do breaketh mais
se eu morrer, pense somente disto de mim
babylon -- onde eu vou sonhar
veja, eles retornam
entre as montanhas eu vagueei
os dias melancólicos vieram
em sua barraca guardada
para prestar atenção o dia inteiro à onda azul ondular e quebrar
o movimento do seu corpo é como a música

 



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