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teacher poem

el aire es como una mariposa
la hija, arte del thou viene morir
quizás no es ninguna materia que usted murió
cuando usted viene esta noche
soy fevered
pensamientos a través de mi cabeza
para estos brazos blancos sobre mi cuello
ámeme en el último, o si usted no
la oscuridad
en la tierra silenciosa
escuche

 



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