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sad poem

sob a lua da colheita
há uma hora do descanso calmo
o céu
onde deva mim encontre-o
se eu morrer, pense somente disto de mim
săo idos os tręs, aquelas irmăs raras
um poeta, fazendo exame do breio fora de sua lingüeta
eu năo posso sempre sentir seu greatness
embora eu sou pouco como todas as coisas pequenas
esse companheiro estranho veio em baralhar os pés
por muito tempo há, no moonlight novo
mulher boa

 



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