En las tardes azules de verano, ire por los senderos,
picado por el trigo, hollare la hierba menuda:
soñador, sentire el frescor en mis pies,
dejare que el viento bañe mi cabeza desnuda.No hablare, no pensare en nada:
pero el amor infinito me subira al alma,
me ire lejos, muy lejos, como un bohemio,
por la naturaleza, feliz como una mujer.
Arthur Rimbaud – sensación
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