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mom poem

flores de bebés
y pan del breaketh no más
las sombras de las naves
los poetas dicen
esos ojos negros i elogiado una vez tan
tan perdido
sé no dónde
puesto que he sentido el sentido de la muerte
fuera de mí indigno y desconocido
aunque soy poco como todas las pequeñas cosas
con los ojos mansos, marrones
como baja el igualar

 



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