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sad poem

déjeme moverse lentamente a través de la calle
¡bajo!' tis a la noche de la gala
estoy parado en el tiempo gris frío
porqué son las cosas que no tienen ninguna muerte
el prado se arrastraba
dígame menos o dígame más
el relámpago destellaba, y levantó
tengo gusto de ella
camino abajo de las trayectorias del jardín
tenían él e i pero satisfecho

 



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