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pumpkin poem

raza alto-llevada
suave como la cama en la tierra
tristes son que saben no amor
tiene usted el caminar visto a través de la aldea
dios
flor blanca de la espuma, flor roja de la llama
sueño, hermano gris de la muerte
se van los tres, esas hermanas raras
él incluso tendría su broma
amé a mujer
a lo largo de los bancos
del sol ni de estrellas
una milla detrás

 



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