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child poetry

esse ano
meu filho está inoperante e eu sou cortina indo
porque o faça sempre carrinho que tirita lá
havia nunca um som ao lado da madeira mas de uma
vinho velho a beber
melancolia, azul era
os dias melancólicos vieram
eu amo roubar por algum tempo afastado
uma sombra cinzenta fina na borda do pensamento
têm você não ouvido
este é o arsenal
agora quando meus bordos viverem

 



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