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son poem

había tres en el prado al lado del arroyo
sacudaro mi pelo en el viento de la mañana
quién ama la lluvia
usted piensa, mi muchacho, cuando pongo mis brazos alrededor de usted
amé a mujer
arqueó la inundación
el dulce con el fern y se levantó
ochenta años han pasado, y más

 



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