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.

Today is today, and yesterday is gone. There is no doubt.

Oh to follow the road that leads away from everything, without anguish, death, winter waiting along it with their eyes open through the dew.

I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.

Love is a clash of lightnings

La heradera del dia destruida. (The heiress of the destroyed day.)

In love, you have loosened yourself like seawater