ARACNE
 
                                                                                El sol calla
                                                                                entre sus dédalos,
                                                                                la luna
                                                                                grita en silencio.
                                                                                Es la madre nuestra
                                                                                de cada ocaso.
                                                                                (Huye,
                                                                                que no te consuma
                                                                                la última cena)

 

 

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