As vindimas deviam ser feitas em Janeiro. Assim, calçava as galochas pretas e ia para os montes colher as uvas. Pegava num cacho, olhava para o rio, pegava noutro e não fazia mais nada. Teria o tempo sem fim. Só os montes gritariam: trabalha. Nem o vento me abanava as ideias, nem o governo caía.
desculpem por 1963
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