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prose poetry

eu estive pelo casement aberto
não gire sua cabeça
a mulher faltou-me muito, como você se chama me, chamada
sono, irmão cinzento da morte
nas manhãs nuvem-cinzentas
eu sou cansado de ser amargo e cansado de ser sábio
o ar é como uma borboleta
composto do loveliness sozinho
em seus regimentals ásperos
sabe uma liberação barata

 



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