The poet is an untier of knots, and love without words is a knot, and it drowns.
Now my belly is as noble as my heart.
Speech is our second possession, after the soul-and perhaps we have no other possession in this world.
What the soul is to the body, so is the artist to his people.
In the secret of night, my prayer climbs like the liana, My prayer is, and I am not. It grows, and I perish. I have only my hard breath, my reason and my madness. I cling to the vine of my prayer. I tend it at the root of the stalk of night.
I have all that I lost and I go carrying my childhood like a favorite flower that perfumes my hand.