Voy a secar el pasado, a cultivar el aire, a ocultar las hojas de la memoria, a hacer de los silencios paciencia... que las alas te pertenezcan. Ya sabes de las heridas de mis ojos, de la mirada errante. Ya sabes del mar de trigo y de su siembra, del campo convertido en ave. Sobre tu piel florece la lluvia, el sol amargo, y unas cuantas primaveras.
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