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sad poem

o cheiro do levantou-se assim falso, os espinhos assim verdadeiros
não se aflija que sobre
quando liberdade de sua altura da montanha
entre o fumo e a névoa de uma tarde de dezembro
eu v todas as sagacidades humanas
poderíamos nós mas para saber
ainda treze anos
para eu era um conselheiro gaunt, grave


 



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