such a little time
your flight, your
hurt me
words as the furrow
opening the land.
Doles
quiet in my silent heart,
force pulses,
my passions, my jealousy.
I envy you, it hurts your conversation
present
hurts my last lesson
and everything becomes a tango.
A tango such as
Goyeneche, unlike the
Gardel,
bandoneon pain.
You have
cynicism
you have my glory,
suburb,
hopscotch player.
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