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fall poem

dentro de minha mão eu prendo
acima dos prados ricos com milho
onde deva mim encontre-o
meu filho está inoperante e eu sou cortina indo
quando os mar-ventos perfuraram nossos solitudes
tropeçando acima, caindo para baixo
nobility da morte outra vez
bonito
eu não queimo nenhum incense

 



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