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sad poetry

no hay presa yo de pensamientos pobres
el movimiento de su cuerpo es como música
no hay multitud, no obstante está mirado y tendido
el niño que lanzó lejos la hoja después de la hoja
ido antes de nosotros
podríamos sino saber
mi dolor, cuando ella está aquí con mí
haga a muchachos y las muchachas todavía van
los arcos del puente rojo

 



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