Misfortune is never invited. And it comes and sits at the table without permission and it eats, leaving nothing but bones.

Experience is the cane of the blind.

And at dawn, the drums still beat on the sleepless plain like an unstoppable heart.

At noon, you walk across a river. It is dry, with not this much water: it is just stones and pebbles. But it rains cats and dogs in the mountains, and towards afternoon, the water descends wildly and she ravages all in its path, the madwoman. That is how death comes. Without our expecting it, and we cannot do a thing against it, brothers.

Misfortune is never invited. And it comes and sits at the table without permission and it eats, leaving nothing but bones.

As they say, when a man begins to have bad luck, even clabber can break his head.

Water. Its sunny track in the plain; its splashing in the garden canal, the sound it makes when in its course it meets the mane ofthe grass; the diluted reflection of the sky together with the fleeting sight of the reeds; the Negresses fill their dripping gourds and their red clay containers; the song of the washerwomen; the gorged fields the tall crops ripening.