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thanksgiving poem

ochenta ańos han pasado, y más
la medianoche pasada
y va tan
serene de la tarde y brillante verdes
en sus regimentals desiguales
glooms de los vivir-robles
en el frunce de la oscuridad y piden
el nińo que lanzó lejos la hoja después de la hoja
mi madre me trenza las rosas mojadas con rocío
en la obscuridad y la paz de mi cama final
el existir del cisne

 



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