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mom poem

lá pela janela na casa velha
eu estou morrendo
eu sou velho e cego
baixo! ' tis um a noite do gala
o justo e stately empregada doméstica, cujos olhos
as sombras dos navios
deixe-me mover-se lentamente através da rua
há um país completamente do vinho
eu sou o vento que wavers
caído assim

 



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