Crujido detrás de la ventana de la cerca,
Y recuerda en la vieja mesa.
Cuántos que dicen: me rindo.
Día tras día, levantarse por la mañana.
Solo el pasado se duplica en color.
Y aquí estás: una anciana, un abrevadero, un abuelo gruñón.
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Ok.
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Ah si, me gustan las cosas sin sentido.
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