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grandma poem

mi alma es un campo arado oscuro
glooms de los vivir-robles
ochenta años han pasado, y más
la agonía del tener demasiada energía
todavía trece años
vi la primera pera
me preguntan donde he estado
las cortinas de la noche caían rápidamente
hay aumentos para todas nuestras pérdidas
todos dentro y todos sin mí
una tormenta está montando en la marea

 



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