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autumn poem

los cielos que eran ashen y sobrio
mi hijo es muerto y soy persiana que va
el banquete real fue hecho
el existir del cisne
era el otoño del año
claro de luna profundo y blando
el viejo oeste, el viejo tiempo
no hay multitud, no obstante está mirado y tendido
hice una pausa el marco abierto
al amante apasionado
mi madre me trenza las rosas mojadas con rocío
es verdad que usted dice que los dioses son más uso a usted que hadas
hasta su ventana del compartimiento

 



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