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eu sou o vento que wavers
ame-me no último, ou se você não
abaixo de minha janela em uma rua da cidade
você é bonito e desvanecido
há três maneiras em que os homens fazem exame
quando você vier hoje à noite
a noite era preta e drear
sob a folha dusky do laurel
eu disse
como uma vela branca
talvez não é nenhuma matéria que você morreu

 



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