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gothic poetry

o ar é como uma borboleta
minha mãe twines me as rosas molhadas com orvalho
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
o relâmpago piscou, e levantou
eu ofereci-os todo o farewell
por muito tempo há, no moonlight novo
paredes e enorme elevados
ainda seu cinza balança a torre acima do mar

 



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