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spanish poem

la hija, arte del thou viene morir
el mirar más allá
se hace el día
sacudaro mi pelo en el viento de la mañana
había tres en el prado al lado del arroyo
en su vuelo
la mujer faltó mucho, cómo usted llama a mí, llamada a mí
él incluso tendría su broma
en el puerto de York nueva
cuando, lleno de amor caliente e impaciente

 



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