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mother poem

sad são que sabem não o amor
era o outono do ano
acima dos prados ricos com milho
a o que uma mulher a comparará beloved
o ar está cheio do alvorecer e da mola
com seu cabelo que flaying descontroladamente
mulher boa
o pitiful pequeno, desgastado, caras rir
glass-blower do tempo
eu agito meu cabelo no vento da manhã
e como poderia você sonho da reunião
para eu era um conselheiro gaunt, grave
a música i ouvido com você era mais do que a música

 



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