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grandmother poem

do assoalho ao teto
quietamente, com reverance, no awe
é frequentemente não assim?
embora eu sou pouco como todas as coisas pequenas
levantado dos mortos
serene da tarde e brilhante verdes
não permaneça não mais
eu estou cantando-lhe
em sua barraca guardada
os poetas dizem
o sol está acima
alguns dias mais ventosos

 



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