Aqu est una herida que nunca curar, yo sabe, siendo labrada no de un precio y de una muerte, pero de las cenizas dadas vuelta un amor y de la respiracin salida de belleza; crecer nunca otra vez la hierba en eso acre marcado con una cicatriz, aunque siembro la semilla joven all anualmente y el cielo lega sus tiempos amistosos abajo, lejos debajo ser tal amargura de una vieja afliccin. Ese abril se debe romper por una rfaga, ese agosto se debe nivelar por una lluvia, puedo aguantar, y eso que el polvo levantado del hombre debe colocar a la tierra otra vez; Pero que un sueo puede morir, ser un empuje entre mis costillas por siempre del dolor caliente.
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