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no hay presa yo de pensamientos pobres
le detesté
de largo hace, en el claro de luna joven
todavĂ­a su gris oscila la torre sobre el mar
compuesto de loveliness solamente
el más triste del año
materia de la luna
ahora que me he refrescado a usted
porqué lo haga
suave como la cama en la tierra

 



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