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thanksgiving poetry

esta bacia de prata antiga de meus
eu sou cansado de ser amargo e cansado de ser sábio
eu não pray para a paz
era uma oysterman novo alto
eu sou uma mulher
e pão do breaketh mais
diga-me mais menos ou diga-me mais
uma vez este turf macio
era não para esse cheiro singular
em sua barraca guardada
quando a noite drifts ao longo das ruas da cidade

 



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