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baby poem

talvez não é nenhuma matéria que você morreu
agora que eu lhe esfriei
minha mãe twines me as rosas molhadas com orvalho
nunca em toda minha vida
você é bonito e desvanecido
nas manhãs nuvem-cinzentas
as estrelas caíram do heaven
a noite era preta e drear
qual se mantem

 



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