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sad death poem

y como caminamos la hierba fue revuelta débilmente
sé lo que usted va a decir
este tazón de fuente de plata antiguo el míos
de largo hace, en el claro de luna joven
el más triste del año
en sus regimentals desiguales
en la tierra silenciosa
sacudaro mi pelo en el viento de la mañana
soplador de vidrio del tiempo
en septiembre
suavemente llorando
apenas ahora

 



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