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este tazón de fuente de plata antiguo el míos
en números mournful
entre el humo y la niebla de una tarde de diciembre
soy una mujer
splendor dulce
no hay multitud, no obstante está mirado y tendido
la pienso espléndido justo
le hizo oyen hablar siempre
glooms de los vivir-robles
fui arriba y abajo de las calles
los pequeños rezos blancos

 



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