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short friendship poem

entre o fumo e a névoa de uma tarde de dezembro
quando eu retornei no por do sol
de nossos lugares escondidos
eu vi a primeira pera
simplesmente falando
se ele
uma névoa estava dirigindo para baixo
e pão do breaketh mais
minha mãe twines me as rosas molhadas com orvalho
eu sei o que você está indo dizer
eu sou o vento que wavers
baixo! ' tis um a noite do gala

 



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