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lost love poem

serene da tarde e brilhante verdes
apenas como meus dedos nestas chaves
quem ama a chuva
a noite é escura, e os ventos do inverno
eu gosto d
um pęssego pequeno no pomar cresceu
levantado dos mortos
com seu cabelo que flaying descontroladamente
em e sobre
f4-lo vęem sempre um jacaré
năo permaneça năo mais

 



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