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broken heart poem

a festa real foi feita
a noite é escura, e os ventos do inverno
se eu for muito certo
eighty anos passaram, e mais
eu sou velho e cego
balançado no berço do profundo
dentro de minha mão eu prendo
em seus regimentals ásperos
não permaneça não mais
não seja falso
eu tenho que dizer good-night
tudo dentro e tudo sem mim
você pensa, meu menino, quando eu enrolo meus braços em você

 



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