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son poem

o pitiful pequeno, desgastado, caras rir
o cheiro do levantou-se assim falso, os espinhos assim verdadeiros
porque
as sombras dos navios
a festa real foi feita
pela costa, pelo mar
pensamentos através de minha cabeça
eu vi os archangels em minha maçã-árvore última noite
short e doce, e nós viemos à extremidade dela
mundo que muda sob minha mão
sombras voadas que varrem perto
macio como a cama na terra
musing, entre o por do sol e a obscuridade

 



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