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christian poem

el viejo oeste, el viejo tiempo
los he oĂ­do en la noche
déme el hambre
flores de bebés
puesto que he sentido el sentido de la muerte
debajo de mi ventana en una calle de la ciudad
mi hijo es muerto y soy persiana que va
los pequeños rezos blancos
para estos brazos blancos sobre mi cuello
cĂłmoyo ayude a la derecha al mundo que va mal
hago mi cubierta, pero nadie sabe
vea, de esta falsificación de él
nuestros momentos agradables vuelan
éstos sean

 



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