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thanksgiving poetry

apenas como mis dedos en estas llaves
mi hijo es muerto y soy persiana que va
la música i oído con usted era más que música
el amanecer era verde
usted piensa, mi muchacho, cuando pongo mis brazos alrededor de usted
y como caminamos la hierba fue revuelta débilmente
hago mi cubierta, pero nadie sabe


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