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angel poem

bucks pretos gordos em um quarto do vinho-tambor
eu não posso dizê-lo agora
meu filho está inoperante e eu sou cortina indo
se eu souber o narrow uma prisão é amor
não seja falso
era muitas e muito um ano há
de encontro à flama verde da hawthorn-árvore
balançado no berço do profundo
as canções velhas
quando eu olhei em seus olhos
era uma beleza nos dias
jogaram uma pedra, você jogaram uma pedra
através do peito aching da terra larga
você é bonito e desvanecido

 



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