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You are scarlate

I write,
with loaded look,
several mornings
insomniacs, solitary.
 
Fears,
they are not my arrangements
I just woke them up
marking moments.
 
I ask myself,
Because of so many suns
Fly butterflies in disheveled.
 
Their idylls,
extravagant waterfalls
without measures,
without censorship.

Other works by Tereza Lima...



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