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sad death poem

voy mi manera complacently
cuando voy de nuevo a la tierra
debajo de la luna de la cosecha
ido antes de nosotros
qué ocasión spiteful roba unawares
el olor del se levantó tan falso, las espinas tan verdades
el existir del cisne
cuál era él los motores dichos
sueño dulce en sus sepulcros humildes
cuando las horas del día se numeran
encima de los prados ricos con maíz
no ruego para la paz

 



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