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black poetry

los días melancólicos han venido
asustado no más, digo
debajo del timón del guerrero
ochenta años han pasado, y más
amo robar un rato lejos
un pequeño melocotón en la huerta creció
cómo es salvaje, cómo bruja-como extraño que la vida debe ser
hace usted oír
soy fevered
sueño, hermano gris de la muerte

 



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