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short love poem

porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
eu vi as estrelas as mais orgulhosas
o ar é como uma borboleta
splendor doce
eliminar, esforçando-se vainly
quando as horas do dia forem numeradas
ido antes de nós
acima dos prados ricos com milho
como uma vela branca
o cheiro do levantou-se assim falso, os espinhos assim verdadeiros

 



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