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death poetry

em setembro
as máscaras da noite estavam caindo rapidamente
não há nenhum escape pelo rio
há uns ganhos para todas nossas perdas
última meia-noite
sabe uma liberação barata
eu sou o vento que wavers
a senhora, seu coração girou para a poeira
balançado no berço do profundo
o corpo pode confinar

 



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