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christmas poetry

plantemos
la luz retirada
no me quemo ningún incienso
quién ama la lluvia
debajo de mi ventana en una calle de la ciudad
cómoyo ayude a la derecha al mundo que va mal
cuando las horas del día se numeran
el sol está para arriba
la hija, arte del thou viene morir
al amante apasionado
solitario y solitario
ciudad que no es una ciudad


 



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