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writing poetry

eliminar, esforçando-se vainly
como ele de quem espírito na chama do meio-dia
eu ganhei a raça
o que era ele os motores ditos
esta bacia de prata antiga de meus
mil anos silenciosos há
traga-me a canção macia
acima dos prados ricos com milho
é verdadeiro que você diz que os deuses lhe são mais uso do que fairies
e como poderia você sonho da reunião

 



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