What will they say about my poetry who never touched my blood?

It was at that age that poetry came in search of me.

The tomato offers its gift of fiery color and cool completeness.

Where were you then? Who else was there? Saying what? Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly when I am sad and feel you are far away?

Whom can I ask what I came to make happen in this world? Why do I move without wanting to, why am I not able to sit still? Why do I go rolling without wheels, flying without wings or feathers, and why did I decide to migrate if my bones live in Chile?

The road made wet by the water of August shines like it was cut in full moonlight

But from each crime are born bullets that will one day seek out in you where the heart lies.