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death poem

os navios estão encontrando-se na baía
nas manhãs nuvem-cinzentas
era muitas e muito um ano há
flores dos bebês
entre o fumo e a névoa de uma tarde de dezembro
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
eu disse
apenas agora
uma sombra cinzenta fina na borda do pensamento
como ele de quem espírito na chama do meio-dia
splendor doce
o ar é como uma borboleta

 



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