Cuartel interior de la tarde

lunes, marzo 18, 2019

Hacen arena tus manos en un pozo sin fondo. Buscan tus ojos matorrales. Liebres, madrigueras. Mangas rotas de la fortuna. Espaldas donde el sudor baila. Cuerpos tumbados siempre en su inocencia. Es tarde silenciosa. Cuartel interior de la tarde. Punto anverso inusitado. Donde hacen pantomima el sol y las palmeras. Se cuelga el viento. Sonríe a los agujeros. Golpe de luz majestuoso.

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