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suicide poetry

a festa real foi feita
nas manhãs nuvem-cinzentas
não se aflija que sobre
nós colocamos
eu soube o silêncio das estrelas e do mar
o cheiro do levantou-se assim falso, os espinhos assim verdadeiros
frequentemente eu penso da cidade bonita
antes do saint de bronze solemn
em algum lugar eu li um tale estranho, velho, oxidado

 



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