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autumn poetry

quando eu retornei no por do sol
como uma vela branca
cidade que não é uma cidade
eu sei não onde
tropeçando acima, caindo para baixo
eu arremessei minha alma ao ar como um vôo do falcão
macia weeping
quando eu estive escutar, discreetly dumb
glass-blower do tempo
short e doce, e nós viemos à extremidade dela
cante-o outra vez à canção cantado

 



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