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contemporary poetry

flores dos bebês
esta bacia de prata antiga de meus
os arcos da ponte vermelha
eu olhei em cima do céu glorious
era o outono do ano
o mais saddest do ano
meu filho está inoperante e eu sou cortina indo
uma névoa estava dirigindo para baixo
havia três no prado pelo ribeiro
quando uma ação for feita para a liberdade
se o slayer vermelho pensar slays
esteja em mim como os modos eternal
quietamente, com reverance, no awe

 



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