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christmas poem

são idos os três, aquelas irmãs raras
deixe-nos expressar nossas paixões mais baixas
os dias hypocritic
a criança que jogou afastado a folha após a folha
com vermelho do sangue dos bordos e coração da pedra
têm você não ouvido
um pêssego pequeno no pomar cresceu
sad são que sabem não o amor
entre o fumo e a névoa de uma tarde de dezembro
sentar-se em seu balancim que espera seu chá
escute
e assim vai

 



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