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death poem

se eu for muito certo
eu disse, mim fechei meu coração
se o slayer vermelho pensar slays
agora quando meus bordos viverem
trançado e tecido
ao longo dos bancos
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
poderíamos nós mas para saber
entre o fumo e a névoa de uma tarde de dezembro
um poeta, fazendo exame do breio fora de sua lingüeta
cai aqui nenhuma luz
minha mãe twines me as rosas molhadas com orvalho

 



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