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retirement poem

uma tempestade está montando na maré
em sua barraca guardada
o oeste velho, o tempo velho
eu não pray para a paz
em possa
você pensa, meu menino, quando eu enrolo meus braços em você
vivido pelo river-side
para poder ver cada lado de cada pergunta
eu agito meu cabelo no vento da manhã

 



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