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sympathy poem

havia um strangeness em seus bordos
há uma cidade, builded por nenhuma mão
porque assim sad meu encantador?
era muitas e muito um ano há
o que era ele os motores ditos
melancolia, azul era
mundo que muda sob minha mão
uma vez este turf macio
entre o fumo e a névoa de uma tarde de dezembro
eu resido na montanha da tabela
eu sou cansado de ser amargo e cansado de ser sábio

 



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