I like on the table, when we're speaking, the light of a bottle of intelligent wine.

With which stars do they go on speaking,the rivers that never reach the sea?

Then Scale by scale, We strip off The delicacy And eat The peaceful mush Of its green heart.

You are like nobody since I love you.

Who do I belong to? How come I mortgaged my being till I don't belong to myself? How come I sold my blood? And who now owns my indecisions, my hands, my private pain, my pride?

I love all things, not only the grand but the infinitely small: thimble, spurs, plates, flower vases.

Cómo se acuerda con los pájaros la traducción de sus idiomas?