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thanksgiving poem

el niño que lanzó lejos la hoja después de la hoja
con su pelo flaying violentamente
velas que derriban de lado en latas del tomate
una sombra gris fina en el borde del pensamiento
venido abajo en el amanecer de las colinas windless
hermano, soy fuego
los días endeared a cada MUSE
expresemos nuestras pasiones más bajas
era no para ese olor singular
los poetas dicen
cuando era adaptó Londres
soy una mujer

 



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