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death poem

bucks pretos gordos em um quarto do vinho-tambor
você diz que você me ama
eu sou o vento que wavers
cai aqui nenhuma luz
nenhuma rapina é mim de pensamentos pobres
entre o fumo e a névoa de uma tarde de dezembro
quem ama a chuva
a lua levantando-se escondeu as estrelas
eu moldei o mundo
eu sou fevered
flor branca da espuma, flor vermelha da flama
doubtless eu recordo ainda

 



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