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funeral poem

veja, eles retornam
há qualquer um lá
sobre o rio, no monte
havia nunca um som ao lado da madeira mas de uma
pela ponte rude
escute o mar soando
o dia Ă© feito
teria mesmo seu gracejo
abaixo de minha janela em uma rua da cidade
três anos há hoje
porque sĂŁo as coisas que nĂŁo tĂŞm nenhuma morte
o ar Ă© como uma borboleta

 



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