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son poem

o ar é como uma borboleta
simplesmente falando
esta bacia de prata antiga de meus
apenas agora
eu estou no tempo cinzento frio
as montanhas são povos silenciosos
quando o véu dos olhos for levantado
estourou o vinho feroz
a chuva sobre, e o ar brilhante
minha alma vai clad em coisas gorgeous
qual eu desejo observar
o relâmpago piscou, e levantou

 



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