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poem for pastors

dice de buenas viejas épocas
hace de largo la luz del sol del verano brillar
ella oyó a niños el jugar en el sol
mi madre me enseñó que cada noche
quién nombrará el viento
escuche el mar del sonido
velas que derriban de lado en latas del tomate
flor blanca de la espuma, flor roja de la llama
ella dijo
el movimiento de su cuerpo es como música
ciudad que no es una ciudad

 



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