Se niega el temblor. Detrás, el alma. Su desvarío deshilacha. Se desvanecen las venas de donde brotas. Juego mortal del aire. Campo del doloroso olvido. Tuvimos pecho para el dolor. Lluvia confundida con fuego. Desvelar. Desvelada. Confundida invisible que estrangula. Semilla de la queja, dolor. Se rompía algo de nuestro cuerpo exiliado. Nos quitaba destino. Ni allí siguió existiendo en el recuerdo.
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