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autumn poem

noche misteriosa
rompemos el cristal que vino sagrado
porqué son las cosas que no tienen ninguna muerte
aunque soy poco como todas las pequeñas cosas
he oído que cierta princesa
usted dice que usted me ama
cuando usted viene esta noche
vea, de esta falsificación de él
dentro de este sepulcro humilde un conqueror miente

 



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