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prose poetry

las montañas son gente silenciosa
era el otoño del año
le estoy cantando
sueño dulce en sus sepulcros humildes
vi los archangels en mi manzana-a'rbol ayer por la noche
cuando, lleno de amor caliente e impaciente
las sombras de las naves
el solo puño apretado levantado y alista
flores de bebés
estaba parado

 



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