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angel poem

minha mãe ensinou-me que cada noite
talvez não é nenhuma matéria que você morreu
três anos há hoje
eu nunca soube que a terra teve assim muito ouro
bonito
ido antes de nós
o mais saddest do ano
como uma vela branca
talvez
ainda treze anos
o que era ele os motores ditos
cara esposa
acima dos prados ricos com milho

 



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