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funeral poem

havia três no prado pelo ribeiro
diz de épocas velhas boas
trançado e tecido
cante-o outra vez à canção cantado
meu filho está inoperante e eu sou cortina indo
laranjas arrancando nubian azul-pretas
behold mim, em meus chiffon, gauze e ouropel
uma vez este turf macio
lá pela janela na casa velha

 



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