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concrete poetry

quando os mar-ventos perfuraram nossos solitudes
flor branca da espuma, flor vermelha da flama
última meia-noite
um poeta, fazendo exame do breio fora de sua lingüeta
não seja falso
sol e vento e batida do mar
eu espero-o
de repente, fora das maneiras escuras e frondosas
desolado e solitário
a noite era preta e drear
têm você não ouvido
entre as montanhas eu vagueei

 



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