.En la posada del fracaso,
Donde no hay consuelo ni ascensor,
El desamparo y la humedad
Comparten colchn
Y cuando, por la calle,
Pasa la vida, como un huracan,
El hombre del traje gris
Saca un sucio calendario del
Bolsillo y grita
Quin me ha robado el mes de abril?.
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