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baby poem

el amo de destinos humanos es yo
porqué son las cosas que no tienen ninguna muerte
soy el viento que duda
con rojo de la sangre de los labios y el corazón de la piedra
flor blanca de la espuma, flor roja de la llama
cuando miraba en sus ojos
fuera de la ventana un mar de árboles verdes
no permanezca no más
un pensamiento dulce solemne


 



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