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gothic poetry

esta bacia de prata antiga de meus
entre o fumo e a névoa de uma tarde de dezembro
existir da cisne
em seus braços estava o prazer imóvel
agora que eu lhe esfriei
três dias eu ouvi-os afligir-se quando eu coloco absolutamente
material da lua
eu não posso sempre sentir seu greatness
um pêssego pequeno no pomar cresceu
acima deles todos, olhando para baixo
com o por do sol

 



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