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father poem

a noite é escura, e os ventos do inverno
veja, desta moeda falsa dele
mil anos silenciosos há
eu quero saber às vezes se for realmente verdadeiro
quando eu era quebrou em Londres
dentro de minha mão eu prendo
dentro desta sepultura humilde um conqueror encontra-se
quando o vento trabalhar de encontro a nós na obscuridade
macia agora a luz do dia
os arcos da ponte vermelha

 



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