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black poetry

nunca en toda mi vida
los he oído en la noche
en septiembre
cuando las horas del día se numeran
su pelo hermoso
dentro de este sepulcro humilde un conqueror miente
hace usted no oír
en y encendido
expresemos nuestras pasiones más bajas
tengo gusto de ella
velas que derriban de lado en latas del tomate
noche misteriosa
si era muy seguro

 



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