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funeral poem

para estos brazos blancos sobre mi cuello
calma como que segundo verano
él habla no bien
como águilas en colmo ascendente
de la canción y del sueño para ido siempre
las canciones antiguas
no hay presa yo de pensamientos pobres
¡bajo!' tis a la noche de la gala
ruidos que se esfuerzan rasgarse
tan perdido
materia de la luna
hace usted no oír
vi las nubes entre las colinas

 



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