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family poem

por completo de rasgones
todavía su gris oscila la torre sobre el mar
mi amor verdadero de su almohadilla se levantó
simplicidad
los poetas dicen
porqué son las cosas que no tienen ninguna muerte
no dé vuelta a su cabeza
cómo es salvaje, cómo bruja-como extraño que la vida debe ser
ruédeme abajo por el prado
amé a mujer
solitario y solitario
todavía recuerdo sin duda alguna

 



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