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If you forget me, by Pablo Neruda. I want you to know one thing. You know how this is. If I look at the crystal结晶 moon at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window. If I touch触摸, near the fire, the impalpable ash灰 or the wrinkled body of the log航行日志. Everything carries me to you. As if everything that exists, aromas, blight枯萎病, metals, or little boats that sail航行 towards those aisles of yours that wait for me.
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