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death poem

simplicity
meu sorrow, quando for aqui com mim
era o outono do ano
eu estou morrendo
sob a folha dusky do laurel
e como poderia você sonho da reunião
conseqüentemente eu não posso
meu filho está inoperante e eu sou cortina indo
eu não queimo nenhum incense
se ele
um poeta, fazendo exame do breio fora de sua lingüeta
tudo dentro e tudo sem mim
o ar é como uma borboleta

 



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