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lost love poem

si él
no hay multitud, no obstante está mirado y tendido
las montañas son gente silenciosa
ruidos que se esfuerzan rasgarse
todavía su gris oscila la torre sobre el mar
qué yo le deben
en la obscuridad y la paz de mi cama final
los drowses pálidos del día en el occidental empapan
no hay presa yo de pensamientos pobres
debajo de la luna de la cosecha

 



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