passei nove anos no 炭tero fresco das chuvas das seis horas de Bel辿m do Par叩
esse 炭tero me nutriu
mas ao chorar, o ar que me ardia o peito era seco
poeira vermelha
no Amap叩 virei gente
gente que deixa a poeira grudar na cara
e com a chuva de janeiro
permite que se crie a pintura de guerra
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