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poetry poem

una sombra gris fina en el borde del pensamiento
no dé vuelta a su cabeza
algunos de los daños que usted ha curado
el cuerpo puede confinar
travails de la tierra
hice un voto una vez, uno solamente
materia de la luna
sobre el río hacen señas a mí
envuelva la tierra en tiempo nublado
porqué tan es triste mi encantador?
porqué son las cosas que no tienen ninguna muerte
usted está claro

 



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