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death poetry

soy el viento que duda
cuando un hecho se hace para la libertad
poca puerta fue alcanzada en el último
aunque soy poco como todas las pequeñas cosas
el mirar más allá
aquí miente una señora más hermosa
dígame no
ruidos que se esfuerzan rasgarse
en la obscuridad y la paz de mi cama final
ochenta años han pasado, y más
en y encendido

 



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