Atados, sin movimiento, queriendo saltar.Así estamosy las ataduras nos corroen,nos limitan.Seguimos órbitas delineadas,iluminamos un pequeño mundoy nos creemos absolutos.Vivimos entre rejasy esa estrecha cárcel de convencionesoxida,automatiza,y niegaaunque a veces hablemos de libertad.Hay una línea de humo disolviéndosey yo siento envidia del gris desaparecido.

-Isabel de los Ángeles Ruano

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