I stood on the balcony dark with mourning... hoping the earth would spread its wings in my uninhabited love.

I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter.

With which stars do they go on speaking,the rivers that never reach the sea?

I need the sea because it teaches me

In the house of poetry nothing endures that is not written with blood to be heard with blood.

Nobody can claim the name of Pedro, nobody is Rosa or María, all of us are dust or sand, all of us are rain under rain. They have spoken to me of Venezuelas, of Chiles and Paraguays; I have no idea what they are saying. I know only the skin of the earth and I know it has no name.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body... and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart, like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.