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poem for dad

apenas como mis dedos en estas llaves
debajo del timón del guerrero
ido antes de nosotros
todavía trece años
un pensamiento dulce solemne
el banquete real fue hecho
tengo gusto de ella
travails de la tierra
vea, de esta falsificación de él
las canciones antiguas
cómo como las estrellas es este el blanco, las caras sin nombre
cuando volví en la puesta del sol

 



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