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sad poem

e păo do breaketh mais
porque o faça sempre carrinho que tirita lá
o que mim lhe devem
sob a lua da colheita
a agonia de ter demasiado poder
porque săo as coisas que năo tęm nenhuma morte
o dia é feito
havia nunca um som ao lado da madeira mas de uma
eu estou cantando-lhe
este é o arsenal

 



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