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dentro de este sepulcro humilde un conqueror miente
oscilado en la horquilla del profundo
en el frunce de la oscuridad y piden
con los ojos mansos, marrones
a lo largo de una orilla
fuera de la ventana un mar de árboles verdes
de la canción y del sueño para ido siempre
la oscuridad rueda hacia arriba
debajo de la luna de la cosecha
levantado de los muertos
arqueó la inundación

 



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