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poem for pastors

vinho velho a beber
em seu vôo
eu não pray para a paz
para eu era um conselheiro gaunt, grave
se eu morrer, pense somente disto de mim
fraco-é voada a canção
eu sou cansado de ser amargo e cansado de ser sábio
o ar está cheio do alvorecer e da mola
a festa real foi feita
trançado e tecido

 



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