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poem for pastors

minha mãe twines me as rosas molhadas com orvalho
não esteja irritado com mim
o pitiful pequeno, desgastado, caras rir
vinho velho a beber
nenhuma rapina é mim de pensamentos pobres
abaixo do helm do guerreiro
bonito
como ele de quem espírito na chama do meio-dia
eu prendo seu coração

 



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