Los ojos sin nombre
Parten de la arquitectura del olvido
Eso somos
Los vástagos centroamericanos
Hermanados en esa mierda profunda
Cuchilleros hambrientos
Conducidos por gusanos perfectos con un pin en la solapa
Moralizamos en los sepulcros
Cuando apelamos al tiempo
Para mutilar las páginas
Y narrar otra ficción
Más amable y sin dientes
Obviando las semillas
Deliberadamente desahuciadas
En el fondo de las placas tectónicas
Esas semillas ya no existen
Son una cifra estática
Una cruz en un pueblo
Pérdido en las montañas
Sitio Desarrollado por Archipiélago
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