I have not written all my life, although I glanced anxiously at the amusement pages. Announcing it with a triumphing voice, I remember having seen at my house, through the fence's bars, four Angel missionaries. From the inside of my house my father gave a murmur of profound satisfaction. There was one that constituted a cohesion element, a thread that maintained me tied to my progenitor, anxious necessity of a na?ve and edifying book of the old clergyman...
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Poetry