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thanksgiving poem

bucks pretos gordos em um quarto do vinho-tambor
nas manhãs nuvem-cinzentas
o cheiro do levantou-se assim falso, os espinhos assim verdadeiros
eu não pray para a paz
eu agito meu cabelo no vento da manhã
arched a inundação
que possibilidade spiteful rouba unawares
de nossos lugares escondidos
os céus que eram ashen e sober
filhas do tempo
não permaneça não mais
apenas agora

 



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