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thanksgiving poem

hago mi cubierta, pero nadie sabe
un pensamiento dulce solemne
levantado de los muertos
bucks negros gordos en un cuarto del vino-barril
allí por la ventana en la vieja casa
cuando el viento trabaja contra nosotros en la obscuridad
ahora que me he refrescado a usted
mi madre me enseńó que cada noche
podríamos sino saber

 



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