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thanksgiving poem

cuál era él los motores dichos
la medianoche pasada
este tazón de fuente de plata antiguo el míos
soy fevered
lo vi una vez antes
sobre-habi'a preparado el acontecimiento
podríamos sino saber
la oscuridad
las sombras de las naves
los pequeños rezos blancos
estoy viejo y oculto
mi amor verdadero de su almohadilla se levantó
el prado se arrastraba

 



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