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writing poetry

uma tempestade está montando na maré
eu fui acima e trago as ruas
vinho velho a beber
receoso não mais, eu digo
é ido
quando o véu dos olhos for levantado
eu ganhei a raça
eighty anos passaram, e mais
faça exame de meus bracelets
o pitiful pequeno, desgastado, caras rir
pela ponte rude

 



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