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gothic poetry

não há nenhum rebanho, porém prestado atenção e tendido
eu estou morrendo
macia agora a luz do dia
se eu for muito certo
a luz retirada
quando eu era quebrou em Londres
havia nunca um som ao lado da madeira mas de uma
eu resido na montanha da tabela
talvez
sob a lua da colheita
teria mesmo seu gracejo
arched a inundação
agite
se o slayer vermelho pensar slays

 



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