R

                                                                                                                   E

                                                                                                                   C

                                                                                       R                          E                                                 

                                                                                            O                    N                                                  O

                                                                                                  L               A                                       Y

                                                                                                      A          M                     A

                                                                                                            C     A        R

                                                    R     E     C     E     R     A     P     A                    A     l     b     a

                                                                                                            L      O      C

                                                                                                    U             F             L

                                                                                            Z                      R                   A

                                                                                                                    E                         R

                                                                                                                    N                               E   

                   Vienen                   loS          vientoS         de   océano,     Dejando                  volAr

                hojaS    blancaS   en   el   muelle.  Bailan  en  la   fronterA                que                cRuzan

                         loS     aireS    que   van  y vienen .    Suenan   riSaS   calienteS,   látigoS    de    Sol

e     intervaloS    de      Silencio      y       caScabeleS.  Se     balancea   el agua                                                                                           

   de    aquella    fuente,    que     baña laS  manoS   que la    mecen.

                                              Vuelven       los         brazoS               a            moverSe

                                                       con  el     vaivén de las velaS alzadaS..

                                                                  .que deScanSan ,

                                                                                      a veceS.