Nothing has died
just my look
Desolate
I tell you that nothing has died
That I played the cards,
The poems
And everything eats away
Even the bestial loneliness
The unfindable dead love,
That is not worth it
A warm wine. Red
Allegories
The door has closed.
From now references
The blows my brother, the rough blows
In the red chronicle documenting
My silence
The blows my brother, the rough blows.
- Rodrigo Lira
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