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encima de los prados ricos con maíz
ruidos que se esfuerzan rasgarse
mi hijo es muerto y soy persiana que va
soporte aquí por mi lado
a lo largo de los bancos
rompemos el cristal que vino sagrado
todos tragan los años
cuando la noche mandila a lo largo de las calles de la ciudad
todavía trece años
revuelva
déme el hambre
se hace el día

 



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