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poem for pastors

de encontro ŕ flama verde da hawthorn-árvore
diz de épocas velhas boas
minha măe ensinou-me que cada noite
fala năo bem
seu cabelo bonito
f4-lo vęem sempre um jacaré
levantou-se e o âmbar era o por do sol no rio
a fragrância veio
dentro desta sepultura humilde um conqueror encontra-se
vocę é meu companheiro

 



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