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grandmother poem

usted oye la lluvia?
disparando para arriba, cayendo abajo
glooms de los vivir-robles
debajo del timón del guerrero
dentro de este sepulcro humilde un conqueror miente
sueńo dulce en sus sepulcros humildes
de la canción y del sueńo para ido siempre
amo mi hora del viento y de la luz
el elevar, como el viento sopló
he ganado la raza

 



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