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death poetry

lleno esta taza
por las mañanas nube-grises
amo robar un rato lejos
camino abajo de las trayectorias del jardín
cuando volví en la puesta del sol
algunos días más ventosos
mi amor verdadero de su almohadilla se levantó
he oído que cierta princesa
me pregunto a veces si es realmente verdad
ruédeme abajo por el prado

 



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