Sacudidas las paredes por la larga nieve nocturna, aparecen, ya de madrugada, débiles, eco del crujir, como papel arrugadas, y aún perfume. Los árboles, como visiones de ruinas, en la ciega ira del pasar, se hacen noche desgastada y cantar. Soledad de las turbias manos que no conocieron a nadie.
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