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Respuesta:
With the campaign they point out furious windows,
or rather, despite what we are,
tomorrow is the day of the plans,
beyond your eyes the twilights burned.
Emergencies on the bias, tiny centuries,
nothing is easier than censuring the dead,
entry as dry musicians,
falls on a ring of summers.
To those children that we imagine,
behind the stain bureaucratic kimonos burn,
hells and explosive pairs,
other conservations before Saturdays.
We lack nothing because we are nothing
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