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grandma poem

el sol está para arriba
sueño dulce en sus sepulcros humildes
y como caminamos la hierba fue revuelta débilmente
ella estalló el vino feroz
mi madre me trenza las rosas mojadas con rocío
fuera de mí indigno y desconocido
uno por uno, como se va de un árbol
el más triste del año
a través del pecho de dolor de la amplia tierra
cuando un hecho se hace para la libertad
el amanecer era verde

 



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