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thanksgiving poetry

minha alma é um campo ploughed escuro
a filha, arte do thou vem morrer
os navios estão encontrando-se na baía
eu tive um sonho e eu acordei com ele
um pêssego pequeno no pomar cresceu
a senhora, seu coração girou para a poeira
até sua janela da câmara
como deva mim ajude à direita ao mundo que está indo erradamente

 



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