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short poem

le cuento con
por las mañanas nube-grises
a lo largo de una orilla
antes del santo de bronce solemne
la hija, arte del thou viene morir
esos ojos negros i elogiado una vez tan
no del mundo ancho del conjunto
en pasillos del sueño usted vagó cerca
viejo vino a beber
ella cojea con parar paso doloroso

 



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