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pumpkin poem

aquí cae ninguna luz
tiene usted el caminar visto a través de la aldea
porqué lo haga
mi madre me enseñó que cada noche
tengo gusto de ella
antes del santo de bronce solemne
cuál deseo comentar
ochenta años han pasado, y más
con su pelo flaying violentamente
algunos días más ventosos
déme el hambre
reservado, con reverance, en temor
suavemente llorando
entre las montañas vagué


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