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happy birthday poem

mas eu não posso lê-lo agora
quando os mar-ventos perfuraram nossos solitudes
o céu
para trás, gire para trás
o oeste velho, o tempo velho
se eu morrer, pense somente disto de mim
seu cabelo bonito
abaixo de minha janela em uma rua da cidade
a filha, arte do thou vem morrer
do assoalho ao teto
calma como que segundo verão

 



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