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black poetry

quando liberdade de sua altura da montanha
o sol está acima
vocę pensa, meu menino, quando eu enrolo meus braços em vocę
laranjas arrancando nubian azul-pretas
até sua janela da câmara
vocę é bonito e desvanecido
embora repine do amor, e chafe da razăo
levantado dos mortos
năo gire sua cabeça

 



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