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funeral poem

última meia-noite
sob a lua da colheita
cidade que não é uma cidade
se o slayer vermelho pensar slays
o pitiful pequeno, desgastado, caras rir
sabe uma liberação barata
eu sou fevered
e com o pássaro humming
eu vi-o uma vez antes
levantou-se e o âmbar era o por do sol no rio

 



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