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angel poem

tropeçando acima, caindo para baixo
pela ponte rude
levantado dos mortos
o ar está cheio do alvorecer e da mola
uma milha atrás
desde que, se você estiver por meu lado hoje
eu estou morrendo
para trás, gire para trás
eu ganhei a raça
acima dos prados ricos com milho

 



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