Poemas a la muerte

Poemas a la muerte

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1147

After a hundred years

Nobody knows the Place

Agony that enacted there

Motionless as Peace

Weeds triumphant ranged

Strangers strolled and spelled

At the lone Orthography

Of the Elder Dead

Winds of Summer Fields

Recollect the way —

Instinct picking up the Key

Dropped by memory —

â—„


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