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como águias na elevação ascendente
veja, desta moeda falsa dele
eu amo minha hora do vento e da luz
não pendure nenhuma grinalda
o mestre de destinies humanos é mim
no porto de york novo
se o slayer vermelho pensar slays
baixo! ' tis um a noite do gala
sua cara é justa e lisa e fina
serene da tarde e brilhante verdes
o oeste velho, o tempo velho

 



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