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death poem

no hay multitud, no obstante está mirado y tendido
como ella
rompemos el cristal que vino sagrado
entre el humo y la niebla de una tarde de diciembre
el sol caminó abajo de su trono de oro
la luz retirada
de nuestros lugares ocultados
con su pelo flaying violentamente
amigo, que sonrisa ha venido ser
estos corazones fueron tejidos de alegrías y de cuidados humanos
bucks negros gordos en un cuarto del vino-barril

 



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