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sorry poem

as montanhas são povos silenciosos
deixe-nos piedade aqueles de que seja melhor fora do que nós são
o cheiro do levantou-se assim falso, os espinhos assim verdadeiros
para a verdade, para o amor
lá pela janela na casa velha
eu faço minha saia, mas ninguém sabe
eu encho este copo
acima dos prados ricos com milho

 



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