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sad death poem

agite
veja, desta moeda falsa dele
mil anos silenciosos há
doce e forte
fala não bem
o movimento do seu corpo é como a música
você pensa, meu menino, quando eu enrolo meus braços em você
entre o fumo e a névoa de uma tarde de dezembro
eu agito meu cabelo no vento da manhã
como ele de quem espírito na chama do meio-dia
a criança que jogou afastado a folha após a folha

 



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