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footprint poem

no éramos muchos
a lo largo de una orilla
resido en la montaña de la tabla
porqué lo haga
cuando los mar-vientos perforaron nuestras soledades
vi la primera pera
soy el viento que duda
fuera del profundo y de la obscuridad
cuando voy de nuevo a la tierra
ella estalló el vino feroz
hermano, soy fuego
dice de buenas viejas épocas
ochenta años han pasado, y más


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