Mil veces bajo la opresión de la espera. Ya, bajo su tierra no te escapas, ni huyes del dolor, ese lenguaje muerto del llanto, caído sobre los hombros flácidos. Ven a verme esta noche de afuera ofendida, que goza loca de vernos en esta completa oscuridad; ya no enciende sus nocturnos ojos para navegantes, ni ponen a prueba los viajes locos al fin del horizonte.
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