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grandmother poem

debajo de la luna de la cosecha
cuando la noche mandila a lo largo de las calles de la ciudad
en números mournful
el amor se ha cantado mil maneras
un poeta, tomando el frenillo de su lengüeta
arrojé mi alma al aire como un vuelo del halcón
velas que derriban de lado en latas del tomate
como ella

 



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