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narrative poetry

são idos os três, aquelas irmãs raras
as montanhas são povos silenciosos
fora da janela um mar de árvores verdes
bonito
se eu for muito certo
você pensa, meu menino, quando eu enrolo meus braços em você
esse companheiro estranho veio em baralhar os pés
olhe para fora em cima das estrelas, meu amor

 



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