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grandmother poem

no dé vuelta a su cabeza
tormenta
déjeme moverse lentamente a través de la calle
hay una ciudad, builded por ninguna mano
un destello del oro en gloom y gris
oscuro-eyed
rompemos el cristal que vino sagrado
las verdades tremendas éstos sean
mi hijo es muerto y soy persiana que va
evidenciado en la luz tenue en sus ojos
un pequeño melocotón en la huerta creció
hay aumentos para todas nuestras pérdidas

 



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