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no porto de york novo
pela ponte rude
muito bem, você liberais
sob a lua da colheita
eu faço minha saia, mas ninguém sabe
babylon -- onde eu vou sonhar
a mulher faltou-me muito, como você se chama me, chamada
têm você andar visto através da vila
aqueles no superior dizem que o conhecem, terra -- são liars
rode-me para baixo pelo prado
f4-lo vêem sempre um jacaré
quando liberdade de sua altura da montanha
desolado e solitário
quietamente, com reverance, no awe

 



Poetry news via Google, MSN, and Yahoo!

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  • Boyd Tonkin: A Week in Books (Independent)
  • To read, and learn, from a poet - PSU Daily Vanguard
 

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