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poem for pastors

mi hijo es muerto y soy persiana que va
esos ojos negros i elogiado una vez tan
una sombra gris fina en el borde del pensamiento
cuando, lleno de amor caliente e impaciente
él habla no bien
quién es el corredor en los cielos
era muchas y mucho hace un año
tenemos ninguna vergüenza?
la lluvia encima, y el aire brillante
rosas y oro
ahora mientras que están viviendo mis labios
mi dolor, cuando ella está aquí con mí


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