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sad love poem

em sua barraca guardada
há uma cidade, builded por nenhuma măo
o oeste velho, o tempo velho
uma vez este turf macio
como uma vela branca
na meia-noite
fora da janela um mar de árvores verdes
como ele de quem espírito na chama do meio-dia
a noite é escura, e os ventos do inverno
ruídos que strive rasgar

 



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