Esta habitación circular en el medio del bosque es como un altar
un reparo del viento el gran escenario en que estoy.
Mi voz que rebota en la piedra se va con mi calma pierde en el follaje
no respeta nada ni el don de ser nadie hasta hoy
y con el viento voy buscando en el aire
y como el viento voy no creo que nadie, conteste hasta acá.
La lluvia del jueves traerá olor a madera salvaje
el agua golpeará la roca, dormida, no despertará
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