Start writing for free on quadernoEmilse Cerda
Veo tus manos raquíticas
Tomar las hebras de luna
Y tejer una guerra sin fin.
Hilando la guerra cortaste
La paz y remendaste una
Catarsis.
Hilos que comparten
Destinos y hebras que
Perfilan castigos.
El ruedo se hace infinito
Y la luna finita.
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