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poetry poem

amigo, cujo o sorriso veio ser
bucks pretos gordos em um quarto do vinho-tambor
desde que eu senti o sentido da morte
era uma beleza nos dias
velas que toppling lateralmente em umas latas do tomate
ao longo dos bancos
uma tempestade está montando na maré
bonito
mundo que muda sob minha mão
algum queixou-se ao mestre

 



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