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

So the freshness lives on in a lemon, in the sweet-smelling house of the rind, the proportions, arcane and acerb.

It was my destiny to love and say goodbye.

Donde termina el arco iris, en tu alma o en el horizonte? Where does the rainbow end, in your soul or on the horizon?

I was the owner of my own darkness.

A book, a book full of human touches, of shirts, a book without loneliness, with men and tools, a book is victory.

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