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grandma poem

dentro de este sepulcro humilde un conqueror miente
vea, de esta falsificación de él
el aire es como una mariposa
mi hijo es muerto y soy persiana que va
caído tan
ayer por la noche la Luna Llena puso un paño del blanco
sobre ellas todas, mirando abajo
las viejas canciones
la medianoche pasada
a alguno los dioses gordos
y pan del breaketh no más
simplemente hablando

 



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