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angel poem

dentro de este sepulcro humilde un conqueror miente
amigo, que sonrisa ha venido ser
fuera de la ventana un mar de árboles verdes
velas que derriban de lado en latas del tomate
el prado se arrastraba
el elevar, como el viento sopló
a alguno los dioses gordos
cuando era adaptó Londres
de largo hace, en el claro de luna joven

 



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