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autumn poem

mientras que estaba parado escuchar, discreto mudo
para estos brazos blancos sobre mi cuello
éstos sean
hace usted no oír
porqué son las cosas que no tienen ninguna muerte
los pequeños rezos blancos
quién es el corredor en los cielos
o justo y stately criada, que ojos
mire detrás con los ojos longing y sepa que seguiré
ella oyó a niños el jugar en el sol
el relámpago destellaba, y levantó

 



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