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grandma poem

el pequeño lamentable, usado, caras el reír
usted piensa, mi muchacho, cuando pongo mis brazos alrededor de usted
levantado de los muertos
amo mi hora del viento y de la luz
entre las montañas vagué
estoy parado en el tiempo gris frío
camino abajo de las trayectorias del jardín
mi madre me enseñó que cada noche
rosas y oro
cuando los mar-vientos perforaron nuestras soledades
estoy muriendo
no me quemo ningún incienso

 



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