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.

My grief and my smile begin in your face, my son.

The poet is an untier of knots, and love without words is a knot, and it drowns.

Speech is our second possession, after the soul-and perhaps we have no other possession in this world.

Let the earth look at me, and bless me, for now I am fecund and sacred, like the palms and the furrows.

Love beauty it is the shadow of God on the universe

I have all that I lost and I go carrying my childhood like a favorite flower that perfumes my hand.