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death poetry

escrito en una noche del vuelo
las montañas son gente silenciosa
de nuestros lugares ocultados
mi madre me trenza las rosas mojadas con rocío
estoy parado en el tiempo gris frío
ella era una belleza en los días
usted oye la lluvia?
qué yo le deben
hice un voto una vez, uno solamente
no hay presa yo de pensamientos pobres
sueño, hermano gris de la muerte

 



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