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suicide poem

no puedo sentir siempre su greatness
tengo gusto de ella
debajo de un árbol de la castaña que se separa
paredes y enorme altos
del sol ni de estrellas
bucks negros gordos en un cuarto del vino-barril
velas que derriban de lado en latas del tomate
sueño dulce en sus sepulcros humildes
para estos brazos blancos sobre mi cuello

 



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