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short poem

bucks pretos gordos em um quarto do vinho-tambor
veja o tentative
a filha, arte do thou vem morrer
os prayers brancos pequenos
a noite é escura, e os ventos do inverno
eu estou morrendo
sadly falando
para vestir o pensamento impetuoso
desolado e solitário
de nossos lugares escondidos
o mestre de destinies humanos é mim
o sol está acima


 



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