R. Estela Mendoza
No sabemos quién nos enseñó el mecanismo de espera,
de quién aprendimos este método de tortura.
Esperamos dónde arribar. Espero el poema.
El amor busca un color.
Distribuimos la energía corporal,
agregamos acontecimientos mundiales en nuestras libretas de notas .
Denunciamos con seriedad actos horrendos,
exigimos castigo para los culpables .
Mi patria es aquella, no la otra- señalando una cicatriz
en forma del emblema nacional - .
El espacio geográfico se ha convertido
en el espacio del amor o en la barbarie.
El estado de suspensión del pensamiento se refleja en el tono de voz.
Los peces que se olvidan de nadar se hunden en el fondo del océano.
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