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dark poetry

escuche
un poeta, tomando el frenillo de su lengüeta
la medianoche pasada
estoy parado en el tiempo gris frío
dentro de este sepulcro humilde un conqueror miente
usted está claro
placeres mediados de y palacios aunque podemos vagar
reservado, con reverance, en temor
cómo como las estrellas es este el blanco, las caras sin nombre
fuera de la ventana un mar de árboles verdes
estrella-polvo y luz vaporosa

 



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