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concrete poetry

hago mi cubierta, pero nadie sabe
todos se callan a lo largo del potomac
claro de luna profundo y blando
si muero, piense solamente esto en mĂ­
encima de los prados ricos con maĂ­z
pensamientos a través de mi cabeza
la hija, arte del thou viene morir
he echado el mundo
plantemos
rosas y oro

 



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