Yo, por tu amor, hago lo imposible. Imposible, por ejemplo, no caer en tus manos, no decirte que hoy es mayo, y si tengo que volar que sea en tu mirada. Eres ociosa como una tarde italiana y activa como la tramontana; colorida y brillante como la Toscana. Y si tengo que decirte, en esta guerra donde hierve la sangre, que miro tu boca buscando tu lengua para tomarme tu aliento y tu carne.
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