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pumpkin poem

nós quebramos o vidro cujo vinho sacred
têm você ouvido
não pendure nenhuma grinalda
uma milha atrás
temos nós nenhum shame?
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
frequentemente eu penso da cidade bonita
eu quero saber às vezes se for realmente verdadeiro
eu sei o que você está indo dizer
behold mim, em meus chiffon, gauze e ouropel
eu vi as nuvens entre os montes
desde que eu senti o sentido da morte
eu agito meu cabelo no vento da manhã
moonlight profundo e macio

 



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