La cosecha resbala y muere. Así aprendiste lo que es la siembra. Se divide el grano en tus manos buscando las raíces y el tiempo. Y dices: He encontrado lo que ya existe. He andado donde ya anduve. He esperado en las habitaciones del reloj y del cuento de las horas. Te he buscado y reconocido en la espera. Finalmente, me han marcado los silencios.
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