¡cuán pleno está tu infinito!
¡cuán pleno de verano podrido!
las flores no tienen forma de mundo,
el aire se está muriendo
como una planta inamovible,
no querer el caos invadiendo
como una semilla sin aire,
no querer más voces cruzadas,
ni la traslación de nuestras órbitas,
rueda un querer por tus pupilas,
ellas rayan el cielo,
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