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prose poetry

o pitiful pequeno, desgastado, caras rir
sua cara justa e lisa e fina
bonito
como ela
a noite era preta e drear
limps com parar o ritmo doloroso
de encontro flama verde da hawthorn-rvore
esteja em mim como os modos eternal
tempestade
a filha, arte do thou vem morrer
receoso no mais, eu digo
eu amo minha hora do vento e da luz
quando eu era um menino na faculdade

 



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