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sad death poem

la mujer faltó mucho, cómo usted llama a mí, llamada a mí
he echado el mundo
se van los tres, esas hermanas raras
déme
debajo del timón del guerrero
soy el viento que duda
de nuestros lugares ocultados
a alguno los dioses gordos
no hay presa yo de pensamientos pobres
todavía su gris oscila la torre sobre el mar
no hay multitud, no obstante está mirado y tendido

 



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