I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter.

When did the lemons learn the same creed as the sun?

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.

It was my destiny to love and say goodbye.

I built up these lumber piles of love, and with fourteen boards each I built little houses, so that your eyes, which I adore and sing to, might live in them. Now that I have declared the foundations of my love, I surrender this century to you: wooden sonnets that rise only because you gave them life.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything.

He who has nothing—it has been said many times—has nothing to lose but his chains.