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Hoxe, acabou a vida de alguén que comprimía bicos para darmos en tropel cada vez que me vía. Os intervalos variaban duns minutos a horas, días e mesmo semanas ou meses. E todos eran igualmente inmensos. Logo de lamentar o momento xunto a súa familia, eu pensei neste poema…
«Por que ninguén se desfai chorando cando morre o tempo?»,
Clara Vidal.
