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gothic poetry

tengo gusto de ella
mi madre me trenza las rosas mojadas con rocío
no ruego para la paz
los días melancólicos han venido
y como caminamos la hierba fue revuelta débilmente
mundo que cambia bajo mi mano
las naves están mintiendo en la bahía
era un oysterman joven alto
porqué hágale siempre soporte allí que tiembla
asustado no más, digo

 



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