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gothic poetry

el aire es como una mariposa
mi madre me trenza las rosas mojadas con rocío
porqué son las cosas que no tienen ninguna muerte
el relámpago destellaba, y levantó
los hice una oferta todo el adiós
de largo hace, en el claro de luna joven
paredes y enorme altos
todavía su gris oscila la torre sobre el mar

 



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