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child poem

una tormenta está montando en la marea
en pasillos del sueño usted vagó cerca
quizás no es ninguna materia que usted murió
por las mañanas nube-grises
amo mi vida, pero no demasiado bien
tristes son que saben no amor
caras hermosas, tragical
había una época en años anteriores
lanzaron una piedra, usted lanzaron una piedra

 



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