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poems

un destello del oro en gloom y gris
raza alto-llevada
éste es el arsenal
sacudaro mi pelo en el viento de la mañana
ella estalló el vino feroz
cuando la noche mandila a lo largo de las calles de la ciudad
el sentarse en su eje de balancín que espera su té
cuando voy de nuevo a la tierra
el niño que lanzó lejos la hoja después de la hoja
era el otoño del año

 



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