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narrative poetry

uma névoa estava dirigindo para baixo
filhas do tempo
short e doce, e nós viemos à extremidade dela
eu moldei o mundo
do assoalho ao teto
deixe-me mover-se lentamente através da rua
quando os mar-ventos perfuraram nossos solitudes
a criança que jogou afastado a folha após a folha

 



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