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dark poetry

a filha, arte do thou vem morrer
há qualquer um lá
em números mournful
sobre o rio, no monte
as canções antigas
talvez não é nenhuma matéria que você morreu
esta é a canção da juventude
quando as horas do dia forem numeradas
limps com parar o ritmo doloroso
eu agito meu cabelo no vento da manhã
caras bonitas, tragical
eu disse
sobre o rio beckon a mim

 



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