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broken heart poem

eu vi os archangels em minha maçã-árvore última noite
o ar é como uma borboleta
mas eu não posso lê-lo agora
não permaneça não mais
o ar está cheio do alvorecer e da mola
uma névoa estava dirigindo para baixo
em seus regimentals ásperos
vivido pelo river-side
homem frio stern
minha mãe ensinou-me que cada noite
quando liberdade de sua altura da montanha

 



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