Eres el lecho de todas las revueltas, las llamadas inacabadas, los acaso que nunca tuvimos. Insolente tú. Insolente yo. Fuimos cosechas nunca recogidas, anuncios de vida, y otras temeridades. Fuimos ese eclipse que nunca llega, ni anuncia el fin de las tinieblas. Estirábamos las noches negras como el que huye, viviendo en aquel tiempo del no me olvides.
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