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poems

debajo de la luna de la cosecha
hombre frío severo
los cielos que eran ashen y sobrio
quién nombrará el viento
caras hermosas, tragical
travails de la tierra
él incluso tendría su broma
no esté enojado con mí
una palabra del vuelo de aquí y allí
las montañas son gente silenciosa
con alegría y maravilla
si muero, piense solamente esto en mí
truely
todavía trece años

 



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