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love poem

él vino tomarme por la mano
ese año
quién ama la lluvia
antes del santo de bronce solemne
el olor del se levantó tan falso, las espinas tan verdades
de'bil-se va volando la canción
el prado se arrastraba
ahora que me he refrescado a usted
sobre-habi'a preparado el acontecimiento
aflíjase no para el invisible

 



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