New light
The hands that help us
Allow new light
But how many times, I put
The eyes were glued
The sorts that often
And the time reproduces,
Leaving in backlight
Just as much as transmute,
And is therefore the life
The tombstone fortunate that
It expresses the end of only,
And when in aridity
The floor collapsed,
What seed will be worth?
Marcos Loures
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