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poem for pastors

eu estou morrendo
abaixo de minha janela em uma rua da cidade
a criança que jogou afastado a folha após a folha
como nivelar cai
sua cara é justa e lisa e fina
vindo para baixo no alvorecer dos montes windless
apenas como meus dedos nestas chaves
os navios estão encontrando-se na baía
quando eu era quebrou em Londres
têm você ouvido
eu sou cansado de ser amargo e cansado de ser sábio

 



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