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son poem

un poeta, tomando el frenillo de su lengüeta
si muero, piense solamente esto en mí
escuche el mar del sonido
lleno esta taza
de nuestros lugares ocultados
cuando voy de nuevo a la tierra
nunca había un sonido al lado de la madera pero de una
uno por uno, como se va de un árbol
no hay presa yo de pensamientos pobres
como va un hombre desnudo yo
como águilas en colmo ascendente
usted recuerda
ella puede ser que lo haya sabido en el resorte anterior

 



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