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brother poem

eu sou o vento que wavers
rode-me para baixo pelo prado
o justo e stately empregada doméstica, cujos olhos
eighty anos passaram, e mais
cidade que não é uma cidade
homem frio stern
ainda seu cinza balança a torre acima do mar
uplifting, como o vento fundiu
a noite é escura, e os ventos do inverno
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
quietamente, com reverance, no awe

 



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