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thanksgiving poetry

com o por do sol
ruídos que strive rasgar
duas fileiras dos repolhos
talvez
o ar é como uma borboleta
jogaram uma pedra, você jogaram uma pedra
dentro de minha mão eu prendo
o sol pisou para baixo de seu throne dourado
nobility da morte outra vez
ame-me no último, ou se você não
os arcos da ponte vermelha
caído assim

 



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