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sad death poem

do assoalho ao teto
os arcos da ponte vermelha
uma sombra cinzenta fina na borda do pensamento
cai aqui nenhuma luz
eighty anos passaram, e mais
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
rosas e ouro
limps com parar o ritmo doloroso
a mulher faltou-me muito, como você se chama me, chamada
as máscaras da noite estavam caindo rapidamente

 



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