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inspirational poem

ochenta años han pasado, y más
los pequeños rezos blancos
cuando los mar-vientos perforaron nuestras soledades
disparando para arriba, cayendo abajo
por completo de rasgones
oí el viento todo el dia
si muero, piense solamente esto en mí
qué yo le deben
trenzado y tejido
reservado, con reverance, en temor

 



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