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mom poem

estaba parado
dentro de este sepulcro humilde un conqueror miente
algunos de los dańos que usted ha curado
vi que el dios usted la duda?
no puedo sentir siempre su greatness
para mí era concejal gaunt, grave
había un strangeness en sus labios
simplemente hablando
de piso al techo
éstos sean
sacudaro mi pelo en el viento de la mańana
tome mis pulseras
o justo y stately criada, que ojos
soy el viento que duda

 



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