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happy birthday poem

porqué son las cosas que no tienen ninguna muerte
no sea falso
pero alas, sueños justos
pájaros contra el viento de abril
qué nosotros ahora hará
era no para ese olor singular
para poder ver cada lado de cada pregunta
cuando volvĂ­ en la puesta del sol
hermano, soy fuego
tristemente hablando
estoy muriendo
las montañas son gente silenciosa
reservado, con reverance, en temor

 



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