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brother poem

cuando la noche mandila a lo largo de las calles de la ciudad
el prado se arrastraba
estoy parado en el tiempo gris frío
debajo del timón del guerrero
tristes son que saben no amor
evidenciado en la luz tenue en sus ojos
en sus regimentals desiguales
ciudad que no es una ciudad
un pequeño melocotón en la huerta creció
la oscuridad rueda hacia arriba

 



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