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angel poem

eu estive
eu sou velho e cego
o corpo pode confinar
eu faço minha saia, mas ninguém sabe
podem falar do amor em uma casa de campo
são idos os três, aquelas irmãs raras
ao longo dos bancos
a o que uma mulher a comparará beloved
sob a lua da colheita
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
meu amor verdadeiro de seu descanso levantou-se
há uns ganhos para todas nossas perdas

 



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