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autumn poem

mi madre me trenza las rosas mojadas con rocío
levantado de los muertos
era no para ese olor singular
el solo puño apretado levantado y alista
cómoyo ayude a la derecha al mundo que va mal
ella tiene un claro, loveliness viento-abrigado
como vela blanca
musing, entre la puesta del sol y la obscuridad

 



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