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broken heart poem

trançado e tecido
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
melancolia, azul era
o que era ele os motores ditos
nós colocamos
entre o fumo e a névoa de uma tarde de dezembro
as montanhas são povos silenciosos
moonlight profundo e macio
três dias eu ouvi-os afligir-se quando eu coloco absolutamente
eu estou morrendo
disse

 



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