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thanksgiving poem

as canções velhas
eu ouvi-os na noite
faça os meninos e as meninas vão ainda
esse ano
há uma hora do descanso calmo
eu vi que você hunched e tiritando nas pedras
cidade que não é uma cidade
você diz que você me ama
sob a lua da colheita
quando os mar-ventos perfuraram nossos solitudes
jogaram uma pedra, você jogaram uma pedra
quando eu estive escutar, discreetly dumb

 



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