I don't know who it is who lives or dies, who rests or wakes, but it is your heart that distributes all the graces of the daybreak in my breast.

She did not speak for speech was unknown to her.

Tell me, is the rose naked or is that her only dress? Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots? Who hears the regrets of the thieving automobile? Is there anything in the world sadder than a train standing in the rain?

Latin America is very fond of the word "hope." We like to be called the "continent of hope." Candidates for deputy, senator, president, call themselves "candidates of hope." This hope is really something like a promise of heaven, an IOU whose payment is always being put off. It is put off until the next legislative campaign, until next year, until the next century.

And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy.

All paths lead to the same goal: to convey to others what we are.

And when you appear all the rivers sound in my body, bells shake the sky, and a hymn fills the world.