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death poetry

ese año
ciudad que no es una ciudad
se hace el día
en todas las cosas no habladas de
las cortinas de la noche caían rápidamente
dentro de este sepulcro humilde un conqueror miente
el cuerpo puede confinar
para la verdad, para el amor
qué nosotros ahora hará
behold yo, en mi chiffon, gasa y malla
una vez este césped suave
un pájaro cantó

 



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