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grandma poem

mi alma es un campo arado oscuro
mi madre me trenza las rosas mojadas con rocío
le cuento con
hay aumentos para todas nuestras pérdidas
a lo largo de los bancos
veo todos los ingenios humanos
solitario y solitario
el cielo
no hay presa yo de pensamientos pobres
antes del santo de bronce solemne

 



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