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sorry poem

como uma vela branca
frequentemente eu penso da cidade bonita
como nivelar cai
sob a lua da colheita
era muitas e muito um ano há
acima de e para baixo vai
era uma oysterman novo alto
eu ouvi-os na noite
porque sĂŁo as coisas que nĂŁo tĂŞm nenhuma morte

 



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