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■ A 8th Bienal do Douro sem limites
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2004-12-25 | [Este texto deve ser lido em english] | Submetido por Turtureanu Emilian You’ll die, and behind you your whole abode Next day will still be under sun or fog, And still, the postman is to cross the road Barked at by the same nasty little dog then in the same street will still have a stroll at dusk, pairs of lovers holding hands and every spring they would be dreaming all A dream you’ve also had and that still stands This grass is still to sprout again and grow the willow just the same will bow its mane with tenderness above the river flow only the two of us won’t be again It seems so strange to me that there still is So much time being turned to waste through hate When life is but a fleeting drop of fizz Between this moment of a pulsing state And the flat one, it’s hard to comprehend And sad we don’t more often watch the sky or smile, or gather flowers in our hand us, who are destined to so early die
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