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son poem

bucks pretos gordos em um quarto do vinho-tambor
pouco parque que eu passo completamente
na obscuridade e na paz de minha cama final
a noite era preta e drear
no recolhimento da escuridão e pedem
quando eu retornei no por do sol
melancolia, azul era
são você acordado?
esse ano
talvez
eu disse
sob a lua da colheita
frequentemente eu penso da cidade bonita
eu fui acima e trago as ruas

 



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