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sorry poem

o sol pisou para baixo de seu throne dourado
desde que eu senti o sentido da morte
raça elevado-carregada
eu vi os archangels em minha maçã-árvore última noite
não permaneça não mais
todos quiet ao longo do potomac
com alegria e maravilha
uma névoa estava dirigindo para baixo
o cheiro do levantou-se assim falso, os espinhos assim verdadeiros
macia weeping

 



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