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christian poem

un poeta, tomando el frenillo de su lengüeta
estoy parado en el tiempo gris frío
el sol está para arriba
las sombras ponen a lo largo de broadway
amo mi hora del viento y de la luz
aquí cae ninguna luz
quién nombrará el viento
caído tan
quizás no es ninguna materia que usted murió
usted oye la lluvia?
y mi nombre es veraz
levantado de los muertos
arriba y abajo de él va

 



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