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footprint poem

sono doce em suas sepulturas humble
o único punho clenched levantado e apronta-se
os poetas dizem
não permaneça não mais
o pitiful pequeno, desgastado, caras rir
cidade que não é uma cidade
nós quebramos o vidro cujo vinho sacred
irmão, eu sou fogo
até sua janela da câmara
não há nenhum escape pelo rio
estrela-poeira e luz vaporosa
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
eu amo minha hora do vento e da luz

 



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