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autumn poem

a festa real foi feita
nos salões do sono você vagueou perto
o ar está cheio do alvorecer e da mola
alguns dos hurts que vocĂŞ se curou
o mestre de destinies humanos Ă© mim
nunca em toda minha vida
uma sombra cinzenta fina na borda do pensamento
sono doce em suas sepulturas humble

 



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