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sad poem

la agonía del tener demasiada energía
por las mañanas nube-grises
encima de los prados ricos con maíz
usted piensa, mi muchacho, cuando pongo mis brazos alrededor de usted
en sus regimentals desiguales
su cara es justa y lisa y fina
ahora mientras que están viviendo mis labios
he oído que cierta princesa
tan perdido
las montañas son gente silenciosa

 



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