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martes, 4 de enero de 2011

"The endangered" by Jorge Luis Borges

It is love, I have to hide or flee. Grow your prison walls, like a fearful dream.

The beautiful mask has changed, but as always the only what I want with my charms, the exercise of the letters, vague learning, learning the language used to sing the rough northern seas and their swords, the serene friendship, the galleries of the library, common things, habits, the young love of my mother, the military shadow of my dead, the timeless night, the taste of sleep?.

Being with you or without you is the measure of my time. And the jar breaks on the source, and the man rises to the sound of birds, and have darkened that I look through the windows, but the shadow did not tell me peace traitor.

It's, you know, love, anxiety and relief to hear your voice, the hope and memory, the horror of living in the future. It is love with mythology, with its little magic useless.

There is a street corner that I dare not go. And encircling armies, hordes (this room is unreal, she has not seen). The name of a woman betrayed me. It hurts a woman in the whole body.

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