On our earth, before writing was invented, before the printing press was invented, poetry flourished. That is why we know that poetry is like bread; it should be shared by all, by scholars and by peasants, by all our vast, incredible, extraordinary family of humanity.

Our love was born outside the walls, in the wind, in the night, in the earth, and that's why the clay and the flower, the mud and the roots know your name.

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.

with your name on my mouth and a kiss that never broke away from yours.

Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines...Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her.