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death poem

dentro de mi mano sostengo
splendor dulce
ese año
déjenos compasión los de quienes sea mejor que nosotros son
velas que derriban de lado en latas del tomate
la hija, arte del thou viene morir
con los ojos mansos, marrones
ahora que me he refrescado a usted
hombre frĂ­o severo
en la esfera
él habla no bien
se hace el dĂ­a

 



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