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mas eu não posso lê-lo agora
o prado estava rastejando
desde que eu senti o sentido da morte
eu detestei-o
embora repine do amor, e chafe da razão
tempestade
minha alma é um campo ploughed escuro
todos tragam os anos
pássaros de encontro ao vento de abril
têm você andar visto através da vila
com seu cabelo que flaying descontroladamente
um pensamento doce solemn
nenhuma rapina é mim de pensamentos pobres

 



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