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romantic poem

bucks pretos gordos em um quarto do vinho-tambor
todos quiet ao longo do potomac
eu agito meu cabelo no vento da manhã
quando o vento trabalhar de encontro a nós na obscuridade
havia nunca um som ao lado da madeira mas de uma
uma vez este turf macio
até sua janela da câmara
o mestre de destinies humanos é mim
conseqüentemente eu não posso
três anos há hoje

 



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