By custom, the years
distort the way and times
peck the spoils of the soul. The mottled,
habit, of wounds caused
larger holes.
erode eyes are lost. It hit his chest
wishes
dripping out of habit. In the end, not thrilled
feeling jaded senses
habit, and life languishes
with his hands tied, as always.
By custom, is determined to resist
in the middle of the desert, but not
new grass grows in the sand on my belly.
M ª Antonia Gutiérrez Huete
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