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autumn poetry

porqué son las cosas que no tienen ninguna muerte
debajo de la luna de la cosecha
en números mournful
sueño, hermano gris de la muerte
mundo que cambia bajo mi mano
el sol caminó abajo de su trono de oro
la fragancia vino
dije, yo he cerrado mi corazón
aunque soy poco como todas las pequeñas cosas
éstos sean
con los ojos mansos, marrones
está a menudo no tan?

 



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