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mother daughter poem

aunque soy poco como todas las pequeñas cosas
bucks negros gordos en un cuarto del vino-barril
no hay multitud, no obstante está mirado y tendido
apenas como mis dedos en estas llaves
he venido en el desierto porque mi alma es athirst
una tormenta está montando en la marea
los pasillos de mármol resounding largos
hasta su ventana del compartimiento

 



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