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*ascka's D*Terça-feira, 9 de junho de 2015. Ruth Stone said once she felt the poem coming from the landscape as an earthquake. And her only choice at that moment was to run like hell to get it, even if she needed to get it by its tail. My poems are not earthquakes. They are much more like feathers. Feathers that come from the window and stay there, bothering the floor, until they are written. Yesterday, my window was opened. Her devastating smile met me again. Cutting every single feeling trunk I know. Compartilhar...
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