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un relato breve

Death

Flowers
are best at farewell.
Their scented lap
makes enough for a bed
with dreamy boughs,
if only porcelain.

Deaf

What a bliss,
to hear the vowels of silence
and stick to their saying,
the soundless monologue
that brings words to bay.

It is final,
the speaker reincarnates
as an all-existence
in the wry mouth of a cliff
where nothing listens.

How touching,
seeing shouts in the air.
Down, the waves seize me
into myself, and I but drowse
to this private meaning.

Próximamente

Lee los primeros capítulos

de «Tim y el Trastero del Tiempo» haciendo click aquí:

https://lauravlhenche.wordpress.com/tim-y-el-trastero-del-tiempo/

Beatriz Lozano. Copyright © Laura Henche, 2020. Todos los derechos reservados

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