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black poetry

no hay presa yo de pensamientos pobres
para la verdad, para el amor
soplador de vidrio del tiempo
calma como que segundo verano
sueño, hermano gris de la muerte
le hizo oyen hablar siempre
cuando las horas del día se numeran
entre las montañas vagué
en alguna parte leí un cuento extraño, viejo, oxidado
compuesto de loveliness solamente

 



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