Sin detenerse el camino mientras la senda hace metáfora. Mientras andamos, aún no se concluye, y todo andar es pura metáfora. Buscabas, repentina, la raíz de los sueños. Es la noche el loto dormido, muerte floreciente de aquello que no ha sido; recuerdo del no, por el cuál se va la vida. Flotas sin consistencia como un pájaro impermeable. No hay para ti, ni corriente de la vida ni la de la muerte.
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