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thanksgiving poem

esta bacia de prata antiga de meus
havia três no prado pelo ribeiro
a lua levantando-se escondeu as estrelas
os corredores de mármore resounding longos
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
de repente, fora das maneiras escuras e frondosas
qual se mantem
brilha a última idade, o seguinte com esperança é visto
temos nós nenhum shame?
escuro-eyed
mil anos silenciosos há

 



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