All night I have suffered; all night my flesh has trembled to bring forth its gift. The sweat of death is on my forehead; but it is not death, it is life!
The poet is an untier of knots, and love without words is a knot, and it drowns.
Now I am nothing but a veil; all my body is a veil beneath which a child sleeps.
What the soul is to the body, so is the artist to his people.
Now my belly is as noble as my heart.
Let the earth look at me, and bless me, for now I am fecund and sacred, like the palms and the furrows.