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sad love poem

antes do saint de bronze solemn
agite
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
não pendure nenhuma grinalda
splendor doce
a escuridão rola para cima
entre as montanhas eu vagueei
minha mãe twines me as rosas molhadas com orvalho
o justo e stately empregada doméstica, cujos olhos
eu não posso dizê-lo agora
uma milha atrás
era muitas e muito um ano há

 



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