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thanksgiving poem

soy una mujer
mi madre me trenza las rosas mojadas con rocío
cuando el viento trabaja contra nosotros en la obscuridad
ella puede ser que lo haya sabido en el resorte anterior
de largo hace, en el claro de luna joven
era muchas y mucho hace un año
debajo de un árbol de la castaña que se separa
pensamientos a través de mi cabeza

 



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