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pumpkin poem

he ganado la raza
y como caminamos la hierba fue revuelta débilmente
debajo de mi ventana en una calle de la ciudad
un cielo que nunca ha sabido el sol, la luna o las estrellas
ido antes de nosotros
melancolía, azul era
en la obscuridad y la paz de mi cama final
en alguna parte leí un cuento extraño, viejo, oxidado
no sea falso
antes del santo de bronce solemne
estoy muriendo
calma como que segundo verano
cuando los mar-vientos perforaron nuestras soledades

 



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