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mother daughter poem

todavía su gris oscila la torre sobre el mar
los drowses pálidos del día en el occidental empapan
encima de los prados ricos con maíz
velas que derriban de lado en latas del tomate
tenían él e i pero satisfecho
no cuelgue ninguna guirnalda
la medianoche pasada
el movimiento de su cuerpo es como música


 



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