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birthday poetry

pouca porta foi alcançada no último
em todas as coisas não faladas de
sobre o rio beckon a mim
frequentemente eu penso da cidade bonita
um pêssego pequeno no pomar cresceu
minha mãe twines me as rosas molhadas com orvalho
do sol nem das estrelas
você ouve a chuva?
eu encho este copo
brilha a última idade, o seguinte com esperança é visto

 



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