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son poem

tormenta
sacudaro mi pelo en el viento de la mañana
el sentarse en su eje de balancín que espera su té
placeres mediados de y palacios aunque podemos vagar
¡bajo!' tis a la noche de la gala
con los ojos mansos, marrones
hijas del tiempo
voy mi manera complacently
mi madre me enseñó que cada noche
déme
él habla no bien
serene de la tarde y brillante verdes

 



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