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math poem

ao lado de um campo stricken
pĂ´de tĂŞ-lo sabido na mola mais adiantada
diz de épocas velhas boas
nós não éramos muitos
babylon -- onde eu vou sonhar
trançado e tecido
nossos momentos agradáveis voam
a noite Ă© escura, e os ventos do inverno
o Ăşnico punho clenched levantado e apronta-se
você pensa, meu menino, quando eu enrolo meus braços em você
nĂŁo do mundo largo do todo
com seu cabelo que flaying descontroladamente
veja, eles retornam
felicidade

 



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