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baby poem

eighty anos passaram, e mais
gloom
conseqüentemente eu não posso
como selvagem, como bruxa-como estranho que a vida deve ser
o prado estava rastejando
nas manhãs nuvem-cinzentas
e como poderia você sonho da reunião
mulher boa
behold mim, em meus chiffon, gauze e ouropel
dentro desta sepultura humilde um conqueror encontra-se

 



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