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thanksgiving poetry

não se aflija que sobre
minha mãe twines me as rosas molhadas com orvalho
sob a lua da colheita
esteja em mim como os modos eternal
em uma câmara velha iluminou-se macia
quando eu era quebrou em Londres
evidenciado no glimmer em seus olhos
de nossos lugares escondidos
eu ando abaixo os trajetos do jardim
conseqüentemente eu não posso
era não para esse cheiro singular
traga-me a canção macia
acima dos prados ricos com milho
simplicity

 



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