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pumpkin poem

el aire es como una mariposa
encima del sur en la rotura del dĂ­a
me preguntan donde he estado
flor blanca de la espuma, flor roja de la llama
las verdades tremendas éstos sean
en la medianoche
en pueda
fui arriba y abajo de las calles
era no para ese olor singular
nunca sabĂ­a que la tierra tenĂ­a tanto oro
por completo de rasgones

 



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