las olas desgastan los viejos naufragios

los vientos erosionan la cansada tierra

el tiempo transforma las marcas de la vida

en cicatrices…. que quedan.

petalos que mueren,

flor que se desnuda

puerto enmohecido,

que quiere la alta hermosura

del mar proceloso

que tiene en su anchura.

todo ocurren en silencio,

todo ocurre lento y constante…

no podemos evitarlo…

pero si apreciarlo…


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