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minha alma é um campo ploughed escuro
o sol pisou para baixo de seu throne dourado
têm você não ouvido
pôde tê-lo sabido na mola mais adiantada
behold mim, em meus chiffon, gauze e ouropel
eu não pray para a paz
o doce com fern e levantou-se
f4-lo ouvem-se sempre de
fala não bem
entre o fumo e a névoa de uma tarde de dezembro
para vir assim logo a isto imaginou a obscuridade
talvez não é nenhuma matéria que você morreu

 



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