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sad love poem

si el asesino rojo piensa él mata
los días hypocritic
cuando la noche mandila a lo largo de las calles de la ciudad
debajo de un árbol de la castaña que se separa
con los ojos mansos, marrones
con la puesta del sol
la nieve susurra sobre mí
en su tienda guardada
me pregunto a veces si es realmente verdad
truely
amo mi hora del viento y de la luz

 



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