Vinagre en papel

No eras mía

No eras mía, no eras propiedad

No eras

Eras un amor en mi vida

Un sentido

Un camino para andar contigo

Eras el atrapa sueños tejido…

Sin embargo los hilos se rompieron

Y los sueños se fugaron

Pobre marco solitario aquel

Que antes contendría a un vergel

Ahora vinagre solo es en papel

©Carlos di Paulo Zozaya

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