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autumn poem

el sol está para arriba
todos tragan los años
a lo largo de los bancos
arqueó la inundación
qué nosotros ahora hará
el mirar más allá
camino abajo de las trayectorias del jardín
tome mis pulseras
porqué son las cosas que no tienen ninguna muerte
sé lo que usted va a decir
puesto que he sentido el sentido de la muerte

 



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