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writing poetry

mi dolor, cuando ella está aquí con mí
rompemos el cristal que vino sagrado
ahora mientras que están viviendo mis labios
nunca sabía que la tierra tenía tanto oro
no cuelgue ninguna guirnalda
debajo del timón del guerrero
se levantó y el ámbar era la puesta del sol en el río
reservado, con reverance, en temor

 



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