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grandma poem

a mulher faltou-me muito, como você se chama me, chamada
lá pela janela na casa velha
as canções velhas
quando liberdade de sua altura da montanha
o pitiful pequeno, desgastado, caras rir
tem por muito tempo a luz solar do verão brilhada
ainda seu cinza balança a torre acima do mar
splendor doce
um com você
embora eu sou pouco como todas as coisas pequenas

 



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