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no hay presa yo de pensamientos pobres
era muchas y mucho hace un año
no me quemo ningún incienso
suavemente ahora la luz del día
en alguna parte leí un cuento extraño, viejo, oxidado
ella tiene un claro, loveliness viento-abrigado
todavía su gris oscila la torre sobre el mar
soplador de vidrio del tiempo
usted dice que usted me ama
ella puede ser que lo haya sabido en el resorte anterior

 



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