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suicide poetry

no puedo ahora decirle
la noche era negra y drear
por completo de rasgones
se van los tres, esas hermanas raras
y pan del breaketh no más
soy el viento que duda
qué yo le deben
una tormenta está montando en la marea
quizás no es ninguna materia que usted murió
ella estalló el vino feroz
y como caminamos la hierba fue revuelta débilmente

 



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