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sad love poem

uma palavra do vôo de aqui e lá
bucks pretos gordos em um quarto do vinho-tambor
duas fileiras dos repolhos
embora eu sou pouco como todas as coisas pequenas
nos salões do sono você vagueou perto
talvez não é nenhuma matéria que você morreu
eu estou no tempo cinzento frio
uma vez este turf macio
qual eu desejo observar
entre o fumo e a névoa de uma tarde de dezembro

 



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