Now I am nothing but a veil; all my body is a veil beneath which a child sleeps.

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

Now I am nothing but a veil; all my body is a veil beneath which a child sleeps.

Many things can wait. Children cannot. Today their bones are being formed, their blood is being made, their senses are being developed. To them we cannot say "tomorrow." Their name is today.

Writing tends to cheer me; it always soothes my spirit and blesses me with the gift of an innocent, tender, childlike day. It is the sensation of having spent a few hours in my homeland, with my customs, free whims, my total freedom.

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.

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