Llora el sol,
la aurora un péndulo de sangre,
mi pecho sesgado, casi muerto
saca de mis venas, un verso, una sonrisa
un cigarro con olor de luna parda,
el viento la recoge,
mis manos mueren entre el polvo y la carroña
al sostener mis pies cansados.
la aurora un péndulo de sangre,
mi pecho sesgado, casi muerto
saca de mis venas, un verso, una sonrisa
un cigarro con olor de luna parda,
el viento la recoge,
mis manos mueren entre el polvo y la carroña
al sostener mis pies cansados.
Comentarios
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