Este verano, piérdete.

 'An island, I have said: 
A peak, where fiery dreams and far desires 
Are rained on, like old fires:
A vermin region by the stars abhorred, 
Where falls the flaming word 
By which I consecrate with unsuccess 
An acreage of God’s forgetfulness, 
Left here above the foam and long ago
Made right for my duress; 
Why then, the place? 
What forage of the sky or of the shore 
Will make it any more, 
To me, than my award of what was left 
Of number, time, and space?'

Edwin Arlington Robinson

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