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father poem

haga a muchachos y las muchachas todavía van
hago mi cubierta, pero nadie sabe
mi madre me enseñó que cada noche
camino abajo de las trayectorias del jardín
cuando un hecho se hace para la libertad
todavía su gris oscila la torre sobre el mar
déjeme ser triste
entre el humo y la niebla de una tarde de diciembre
le detesté
por el puente grosero
sobre-habi'a preparado el acontecimiento
escrito en una noche del vuelo
amo mi vida, pero no demasiado bien

 



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