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velas que derriban de lado en latas del tomate
aunque soy poco como todas las pequeñas cosas
nunca en toda mi vida
de nuestros lugares ocultados
este tazón de fuente de plata antiguo el míos
por lo tanto no puedo
es usted despierto?
el viejo oeste, el viejo tiempo
el rodillo triste del tambor amortiguado tiene golpe
por las mañanas nube-grises
si él
veo todos los ingenios humanos
un destello del oro en gloom y gris
debajo de mi ventana en una calle de la ciudad

 



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