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suicide poetry

a qué una mujer la comparará querida
soy el viento que duda
quizás no es ninguna materia que usted murió
una palabra del vuelo de aquí y allí
es verdad que usted dice que los dioses son más uso a usted que hadas
el misterio más oscuro, más extraño
si el asesino rojo piensa él mata
hice una pausa el marco abierto
pero alas, sueños justos
de largo hace, en el claro de luna joven

 



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