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poetry poem

a qué una mujer la comparará querida
sueño, hermano gris de la muerte
se hace el día
flor blanca de la espuma, flor roja de la llama
suavemente ahora la luz del día
porqué hágale siempre soporte allí que tiembla
usted oye la lluvia?
todo mi amor para mi dulce
tengo que decir buonas noches
la tierra guarda cierto ir de la vibración

 



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