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sad poetry

mi alma va revestida en cosas magníficas
todavía su gris oscila la torre sobre el mar
algunos días más ventosos
no permanezca no más
cómo es salvaje, cómo bruja-como extraño que la vida debe ser
ciudad que no es una ciudad
dije, yo he cerrado mi corazón
dentro de este sepulcro humilde un conqueror miente
a alguno los dioses gordos

 



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