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short poem

vinho velho a beber
entre o fumo e a névoa de uma tarde de dezembro
aflija-se não para o invisível
olhe para fora em cima das estrelas, meu amor
eu gosto d
seu cabelo bonito
aqueles olhos pretos i elogiado uma vez assim
há um país completamente do vinho
esse ano
conseqüentemente eu não posso
a luz retirada
felicidade
as canções velhas
eu estou cantando-lhe

 



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