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teen poems

éste es el arsenal
sacudaro mi pelo en el viento de la mañana
no me quemo ningún incienso
qué yo le deben
cuando la noche mandila a lo largo de las calles de la ciudad
encima de los prados ricos con maíz
estrella-polvo y luz vaporosa
para entonces fuera
está a menudo no tan?
a alguno los dioses gordos

 



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