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fall poem

dentro de mi mano sostengo
encima de los prados ricos con maíz
dondeyo encuéntrele
mi hijo es muerto y soy persiana que va
cuando los mar-vientos perforaron nuestras soledades
disparando para arriba, cayendo abajo
nobleza de la muerte otra vez
hermoso
no me quemo ningún incienso

 



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