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dark poetry

era el otoño del año
con la puesta del sol
este tazón de fuente de plata antiguo el míos
velas que derriban de lado en latas del tomate
si había sabido el estrecho una prisión es amor
en sus regimentals desiguales
melancolía, azul era
los cielos que eran ashen y sobrio
por la orilla, por el mar
tengo gusto de ella

 



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