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daughter poem

todavía trece años
ese año
los he oído en la noche
hay una ciudad, builded por ninguna mano
el niño que lanzó lejos la hoja después de la hoja
le estoy cantando
había una época en años anteriores
con su pelo flaying violentamente
él habla no bien
para mí era concejal gaunt, grave
sacudaro mi pelo en el viento de la mañana
materia de la luna
levantado de los muertos

 



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