.Enquanto eu te escrevo,
Saravejo morre lenta
Uma morte amordaçada
No silêncio dos tiros
E na paz da granada.
A noite acoita o metralhar>
Será homem ou fera
Este triste uivar?
Posso ver as avenidas,
Coloridas, presentes,
Hoje sombras despidas
Do passado d.
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