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son poem

nós que estiveram
eu fui acima e trago as ruas
em setembro
quem estará nomeando o vento
o prado estava rastejando
qual se mantem
você recorda
musing, entre o por do sol e a obscuridade
as canções velhas
macia weeping
quando eu olhei em seus olhos
desolado e solitário
uma sombra cinzenta fina na borda do pensamento

 



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