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funeral poem

si el asesino rojo piensa él mata
en sus regimentals desiguales
oí el viento todo el dia
cuál era él los motores dichos
las verdades tremendas éstos sean
estoy muriendo
en alguna parte leí un cuento extraño, viejo, oxidado
ochenta años han pasado, y más
en el frunce de la oscuridad y piden
velas que derriban de lado en latas del tomate
cuando era adaptó Londres

 



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