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brother poem

o sol pisou para baixo de seu throne dourado
ainda seu cinza balança a torre acima do mar
teria mesmo seu gracejo
abaixo de minha janela em uma rua da cidade
quem estará nomeando o vento
a filha, arte do thou vem morrer
deve ir para trás, disse
calma como que segundo verão
nós que estiveram
qual eu desejo observar
em seus regimentals ásperos
macia agora a luz do dia
minha mãe twines me as rosas molhadas com orvalho

 



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