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death poetry

flor blanca de la espuma, flor roja de la llama
quizás
cuando era un muchacho en la universidad
allĂ­ por la ventana en la vieja casa
noche misteriosa
todos esos tesoros que mienten
¡bajo!' tis a la noche de la gala
un poeta, tomando el frenillo de su lengĂĽeta

 



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