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thanksgiving poem

ahora que me he refrescado a usted
quizás no es ninguna materia que usted murió
cuando el velo de los ojos se levanta
sol y viento y golpe del mar
tan perdido
poco parque que paso a través
esposa querida
en sus brazos estaba el placer inmóvil
por las mañanas nube-grises
cuál era él los motores dichos
ese compañero extraño vino en mezclar pies
cuando era adaptó Londres
debajo de la luna de la cosecha

 



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