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sorry poem

o justo e stately empregada doméstica, cujos olhos
quando eu for para trás ligar à terra
sobre os rooftops compita as sombras das nuvens
estes sejam
sob a lua da colheita
cidade que não é uma cidade
minha mãe ensinou-me que cada noite
eu vi que você hunched e tiritando nas pedras
para trás, gire para trás

 



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