El privilegio de perder un duelo

Lately I only find you in the verses bent on weighing the air or lighting a poppy. Along with the inalienable limits and the destroyed beauty of the headstones. Or behind the mist of the watercolors. And that's not blues, Irene. In the blues the secondary characters are superfluous. If we are no longer the boy from the colt navy or the singer who, because he gets so close to the fire, is still burning, we would have to disappear without giving any more explanations.