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thanksgiving poetry

serene de la tarde y brillante verdes
un pequeño melocotón en la huerta creció
porqué tan es triste mi encantador?
para arropar el pensamiento ardiente
entre las montañas vagué
para mí era concejal gaunt, grave
no me quemo ningún incienso
las montañas son gente silenciosa
era una diosa ere el mármol me encontró
ruédeme abajo por el prado

 



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