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african american poetry

sono doce em suas sepulturas humble
acima dos prados ricos com milho
melancolia, azul era
eu tive um sonho e eu acordei com ele
quem ama a chuva
vinho velho a beber
frequentemente eu penso da cidade bonita
eu ando abaixo os trajetos do jardim
a escuridĂŁo rola para cima
o céu
embora eu sou pouco como todas as coisas pequenas

 



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