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autumn poetry

no hay presa yo de pensamientos pobres
si muero, piense solamente esto en mí
cuando las horas del día se numeran
paredes y enorme altos
mi madre me trenza las rosas mojadas con rocío
cuando un hecho se hace para la libertad
vi con los ojos abiertos
una pluma del acero
vi los archangels en mi manzana-a'rbol ayer por la noche

 



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