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thanksgiving poetry

de nossos lugares escondidos
dentro de minha mão eu prendo
havia nunca um som ao lado da madeira mas de uma
o mistério o mais escuro, o mais estranho
que possibilidade spiteful rouba unawares
era não para esse cheiro singular
uma névoa estava dirigindo para baixo
e pão do breaketh mais
deus
na terra silenciosa
perguntam-me onde eu estive
era o outono do ano

 



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