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thanksgiving poetry

oscilado en la horquilla del profundo
usted oye la lluvia?
el amo de destinos humanos es yo
no me quemo ningún incienso
miré sobre el cielo glorioso
había un strangeness en sus labios
asustado no más, digo
encima de los prados ricos con maíz
la hija, arte del thou viene morir
nosotros que estaban parados
de piso al techo
para entonces fuera

 



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