The days aren't discarded or collected, they are bees that burned with sweetness or maddened the sting: the struggle continues, the journeys go and come between honey and pain. No, the net of years doesn't unweave: there is no net. They don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river. Sleep doesn't divide life into halves, or action, or silence, or honor: life is like a stone, a single motion, a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves, an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal that climbs or descends burning in your bones.

Place gifts of silver in our hands. Give us this day our daily fish.

Under your skin the moon is alive.

Laughter is the language of the soul.

Como se reparten el sol en el naranjo las naranjas? How do the oranges divide up sunlight in the orange tree?

I move in the university of the waves.

Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots?