I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Donde termina el arco iris, en tu alma o en el horizonte? Where does the rainbow end, in your soul or on the horizon?

In the house of poetry nothing endures that is not written with blood to be heard with blood.

We the mortals touch the metals, the wind, the ocean shores, the stones, knowing they will go on, inert or burning, and I was discovering, naming all the these things: it was my destiny to love and say goodbye.

I was the owner of my own darkness.

Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.

I don't know who it is who lives or dies, who rests or wakes, but it is your heart that distributes all the graces of the daybreak in my breast.