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sad poetry

dê-me
flores dos bebês
até sua janela da câmara
como selvagem, como bruxa-como estranho que a vida deve ser
entre o fumo e a névoa de uma tarde de dezembro
faça os meninos e as meninas vão ainda
eu encho este copo
abaixo do helm do guerreiro
uma pena do aço
você é bonito e desvanecido
com vermelho do sangue dos bordos e coração da pedra
porque o faça sempre carrinho que tirita lá

 



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