Triste Imagen Poem by Samuel Santana
Triste Imagen
Pasa el viento rompiendo
con su quejido,
con su dolor y con su llanto.
Se ahogan los ojos en las
penas de los tiempos muertos.
Hoy la lluvia es un
tormento constante entre
almas desamparadas.
Yo solo sé que yo soy yo,
que ella es ella y
que las flores,
entre primavera e invierno,
languidecen por su ausencia.
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8/29/2026 1:36:18 AM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
