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birthday poem

quizás no es ninguna materia que usted murió
haga a muchachos y las muchachas todavía van
en su tienda guardada
resido en la montaña de la tabla
mi hijo es muerto y soy persiana que va
cómo como las estrellas es este el blanco, las caras sin nombre
la medianoche pasada
el pequeño lamentable, usado, caras el reír
envuelva la tierra en tiempo nublado

 



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