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teacher poem

dentro de minha mão eu prendo
renove a visão do prazer
os arcos da ponte vermelha
macia weeping
do assoalho ao teto
a noite era preta e drear
sua cara é justa e lisa e fina
eu estive
era não para esse cheiro singular
eu espero-o
eu sou velho e cego
jogaram uma pedra, você jogaram uma pedra
quando os mar-ventos perfuraram nossos solitudes

 



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