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mother poem

el más triste del año
dondeyo encuéntrele
quién ama la lluvia
a lo largo de los bancos
sacudaro mi pelo en el viento de la mañana
sobre ellas todas, mirando abajo
ahora mientras que están viviendo mis labios
sobre los tejados compita con las sombras de nubes
dentro de este sepulcro humilde un conqueror miente
mi amor verdadero de su almohadilla se levantó

 



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