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

Who do I belong to? How come I mortgaged my being till I don't belong to myself? How come I sold my blood? And who now owns my indecisions, my hands, my private pain, my pride?

Cómo se acuerda con los pájaros la traducción de sus idiomas?

We are dust and to dust return. In the end we're neither air, nor fire, nor water, just dirt, neither more nor less, just dirt, and maybe some yellow flowers.

While I'm writing, I'm far away; and when I come back, I've gone.

The Truth is in the prolouge. Death to the romantic fool., the expert in solitary confinement.

Your house sounds like a train at midday, the wasps buzz, the saucepans sing, the waterfall enumerates the deeds of the dew . . .