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short poem

flores dos bebês
são idos os três, aquelas irmãs raras
não se aflija que sobre
este é o arsenal
brilha a última idade, o seguinte com esperança é visto
o que mim lhe devem
o relâmpago piscou, e levantou
última noite a lua cheia colocou um pano do branco
eu não posso dizê-lo agora
o céu
conseqüentemente eu não posso

 



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