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child poem

él vino tomarme por la mano
por las mañanas nube-grises
caras hermosas, tragical
como baja el igualar
todos esos tesoros que mienten
soy el viento que duda
la oscuridad
de'bil-se va volando la canción
ella puede ser que lo haya sabido en el resorte anterior
he ganado la raza
arqueó la inundación
no puedo sentir siempre su greatness

 



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