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sad love poem

sacudaro mi pelo en el viento de la mañana
quizás no es ninguna materia que usted murió
las montañas son gente silenciosa
algunos de los daños que usted ha curado
cuando voy de nuevo a la tierra
sol y viento y golpe del mar
una mirada es solamente un rayo
el solo puño apretado levantado y alista
nuestros momentos agradables vuelan
hace usted oír

 



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