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thanksgiving poem

um pêssego pequeno no pomar cresceu
quando eu olhei em seus olhos
como águias na elevação ascendente
de encontro à flama verde da hawthorn-árvore
dê-me
eu vi as estrelas as mais orgulhosas
não permaneça não mais
laranjas arrancando nubian azul-pretas
como um homem despido mim vai
para estes braços brancos sobre minha garganta
balançado no berço do profundo
é verdadeiro que você diz que os deuses lhe são mais uso do que fairies

 



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