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poetry in motion

el aire es como una mariposa
vea que me doy usted
los he oĂ­do en la noche
mi hijo es muerto y soy persiana que va
déme
hay una hora del resto pacĂ­fico
debajo de un árbol de la castaña que se separa
vea, ellos vuelven
por el puente grosero
pensamientos a través de mi cabeza
era no para ese olor singular

 



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