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type of poem

veo todos los ingenios humanos
debajo de la hoja oscura del laurel
los drowses pálidos del día en el occidental empapan
sol y viento y golpe del mar
él habla no bien
cuando, lleno de amor caliente e impaciente
con los ojos mansos, marrones
para estos brazos blancos sobre mi cuello
no hay multitud, no obstante está mirado y tendido
los pequeños rezos blancos
ella sabe un lanzamiento barato

 



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