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grandmother poem

no hay multitud, no obstante está mirado y tendido
como baja el igualar
disparando para arriba, cayendo abajo
este tazón de fuente de plata antiguo el míos
cuál era él los motores dichos
he venido en el desierto porque mi alma es athirst
en alguna parte leí un cuento extraño, viejo, oxidado
por completo de rasgones
déme el hambre
cuando era un muchacho en la universidad
con alegría y maravilla

 



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