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lyric poem

esse ano
minha mãe twines me as rosas molhadas com orvalho
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
a mulher faltou-me muito, como você se chama me, chamada
uma vez este turf macio
embora eu sou pouco como todas as coisas pequenas
olhe para trás com olhos longing e saiba que eu seguirei
sono doce em suas sepulturas humble
eu encho este copo
em todas as coisas não faladas de
agora quando meus bordos viverem

 



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