Estábamos en el fruto de tu ausencia, en el tiempo dibujados, vulnerables fragmentos. Caía el agua sobre la madera, como invierno que se prepara. Crecían los me dueles, las cosas de la vida, y alguna tristeza. La fiebre, con su mirada blanca, tomaba lugar del parque de los almendros, silenciosos y ligeros como pétalos.
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