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lost love poem

dentro de este sepulcro humilde un conqueror miente
era no para ese olor singular
a alguno los dioses gordos
era el otoño del año
hay una hora del resto pacĂ­fico
por las mañanas nube-grises
nunca habĂ­a un sonido al lado de la madera pero de una
la noche es oscura, y los vientos del invierno
porqué hágale siempre soporte allí que tiembla

 



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