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gothic poetry

soy fevered
todos se callan a lo largo del potomac
velas que derriban de lado en latas del tomate
tenemos ninguna vergüenza?
los cielos que eran ashen y sobrio
los he oído en la noche
quién ama la lluvia
esos ojos negros i elogiado una vez tan
de la canción y del sueño para ido siempre
estoy parado en el tiempo gris frío
escrito en una noche del vuelo
mi hijo es muerto y soy persiana que va
le estoy cantando

 



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