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lyric poem

ese año
mi madre me trenza las rosas mojadas con rocío
porqué son las cosas que no tienen ninguna muerte
la mujer faltó mucho, cómo usted llama a mí, llamada a mí
una vez este césped suave
aunque soy poco como todas las pequeñas cosas
mire detrás con los ojos longing y sepa que seguiré
sueño dulce en sus sepulcros humildes
lleno esta taza
en todas las cosas no habladas de
ahora mientras que están viviendo mis labios

 



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