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erotic poetry

no éramos muchos
mi hijo es muerto y soy persiana que va
escuche el mar del sonido
una milla detrás
al lado de un campo afectado
le hizo oyen hablar siempre
para mirar todo el dia la onda azul encresparse y romperse
todos dentro y todos sin mĂ­
sacudaro mi pelo en el viento de la mañana
ella estallĂł el vino feroz
vea que me doy usted
cuando miraba en sus ojos
oscuro-eyed
miré sobre el cielo glorioso

 



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