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son poem

mi alma es un campo arado oscuro
travails de la tierra
tristes son que saben no amor
hay aumentos para todas nuestras pérdidas
sobre el río, en la colina
fui arriba y abajo de las calles
cómo como las estrellas es este el blanco, las caras sin nombre
hago mi cubierta, pero nadie sabe
reservado, con reverance, en temor
en la esfera
voy mi manera complacently
el prado se arrastraba

 



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