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mother poem

un pequeño melocotón en la huerta creció
nunca había un sonido al lado de la madera pero de una
déme
behold yo, en mi chiffon, gasa y malla
las canciones antiguas
para estos brazos blancos sobre mi cuello
los he oído en la noche
no éramos muchos
quién ama la lluvia
le hizo oyen hablar siempre
aflíjase no para el invisible
claro de luna profundo y blando

 



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