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sorry poem

quizás no es ninguna materia que usted murió
algunos días más ventosos
es usted despierto?
mi madre me trenza las rosas mojadas con rocío
fuera del profundo y de la obscuridad
repentinamente, fuera de maneras oscuras y frondosas
las montañas son gente silenciosa
había tres en el prado al lado del arroyo
éste es el arsenal
oí el viento todo el dia
vea el tentativo
en pueda
el sol está para arriba
a lo largo de los bancos

 



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