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poem for pastors

talvez não é nenhuma matéria que você morreu
sol e vento e batida do mar
como deva mim ajude à direita ao mundo que está indo erradamente
havia nunca um som ao lado da madeira mas de uma
eu fui acima e trago as ruas
mas alas, sonhos justos
sentar-se em seu balancim que espera seu chá

 



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