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death poetry

o mistério o mais escuro, o mais estranho
quando eu era quebrou em Londres
quietamente, com reverance, no awe
quem é o corredor nos céus
sombras voadas que varrem perto
é frequentemente não assim?
até sua janela da câmara
lá pela janela na casa velha
velas que toppling lateralmente em umas latas do tomate
travails da terra
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
eu agito meu cabelo no vento da manhã

 



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