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prose poetry

de encontro à flama verde da hawthorn-árvore
jogaram uma pedra, você jogaram uma pedra
as máscaras da noite estavam caindo rapidamente
eu tenho que dizer good-night
meu amor verdadeiro de seu descanso levantou-se
os corredores de mármore resounding longos
travails da terra
sad são que sabem não o amor
nas manhãs nuvem-cinzentas
em sua barraca guardada
uma névoa estava dirigindo para baixo

 



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