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autumn poetry

do assoalho ao teto
esta bacia de prata antiga de meus
eu sou o vento que wavers
a chuva sobre, e o ar brilhante
têm você andar visto através da vila
receoso não mais, eu digo
são você vivo?
arched a inundação
algum queixou-se ao mestre
balançado no berço do profundo

 



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