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kid poem

no se aflija que encima
sacudaro mi pelo en el viento de la mañana
esté en mí como los humores eternos
el pasar a través de las paredes amontonadas y feas
cómo como las estrellas es este el blanco, las caras sin nombre
él habla no bien
disparando para arriba, cayendo abajo
reservado, con reverance, en temor
soporte aquí por mi lado

 



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