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thanksgiving poetry

quando eu for para trás ligar à terra
uma névoa estava dirigindo para baixo
glass-blower do tempo
o justo e stately empregada doméstica, cujos olhos
pela ponte rude
o sol pisou para baixo de seu throne dourado
têm você andar visto através da vila
evidenciado no glimmer em seus olhos
sumário em uma noite do vôo
sob uma árvore espalhando da castanha
nobility da morte outra vez

 



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