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pumpkin poem

no éramos muchos
era el otoño del año
las naves están mintiendo en la bahía
pájaros contra el viento de abril
la pienso espléndido justo
debajo de la luna de la cosecha
como miento cubierto adentro, defendido adentro
era una diosa ere el mármol me encontró
al amante apasionado
encima de los prados ricos con maíz
placeres mediados de y palacios aunque podemos vagar
porqué son las cosas que no tienen ninguna muerte
si muero, piense solamente esto en mí
cuál deseo comentar

 



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