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sex poem

una tormenta está montando en la marea
ámeme en el último, o si usted no
apenas como mis dedos en estas llaves
felicidad
sobre ellas todas, mirando abajo
en números mournful
melancolía, azul era
había una época en años anteriores
no puedo ahora decirle
una sombra gris fina en el borde del pensamiento
oí el viento todo el dia
miré sobre el cielo glorioso
sol y viento y golpe del mar

 



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