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sympathy poem

de encontro à flama verde da hawthorn-árvore
embora eu sou pouco como todas as coisas pequenas
qual se mantem
ainda treze anos
com seu cabelo que flaying descontroladamente
nenhuma rapina é mim de pensamentos pobres
temos nós nenhum shame?
talvez não é nenhuma matéria que você morreu
sol e vento e batida do mar

 



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