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■ The oak
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2008-04-01 | | Submited by Edilberto González Trejos
Verse is like a key
That opens a thousand doors A page turns, something takes flight How many believing eyes look And the hearing soul remains trembling Invent new worlds and care for their word The adjective, when it does not give life, kills We are in a cycle of nerves The muscle cluster, Like I remember, in the museums; No more do but we have less force; The true vigor Resides in the mind Why do you the rose, oh poets! It will flourish in the poem Only for us Live all things under the sun The poet is a small god.
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