acaba

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"All the sweet stings that come out of the hands all that eagerness to close eyelids to cast dark or dream of blowing a forgetfulness about the charged fronts to turn everything into a canvas without sound It transforms me into the pure breeze of the hour, in that blue face that does not think, in the smile of the stone, in the water that joins the arms mutely. In that last moment in which everything uniform pronounces the word: FINISH". Vicente Aleixandre. B.G.