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math poem

no hay presa yo de pensamientos pobres
velas que derriban de lado en latas del tomate
reservado, con reverance, en temor
contra la llama verde del espino-a'rbol
un cielo que nunca ha sabido el sol, la luna o las estrellas
arrojé mi alma al aire como un vuelo del halcón
glooms de los vivir-robles
venido abajo en el amanecer de las colinas windless
escuche
ahora para una lucha enérgica y alegre
ella estalló el vino feroz
su cara es justa y lisa y fina

 



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