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baby poem

ochenta años han pasado, y más
gloom
por lo tanto no puedo
cómo es salvaje, cómo bruja-como extraño que la vida debe ser
el prado se arrastraba
por las mañanas nube-grises
y cómo podría usted sueño de la reunión
buena mujer
behold yo, en mi chiffon, gasa y malla
dentro de este sepulcro humilde un conqueror miente

 



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