Then I speak to her in a language she has never heard, I speak to her in Spanish, in the tongue of the long, crepuscular verses of Díaz Casanueva; in that language in which Joaquín Edwards preaches nationalism. My discourse is profound; I speak with eloquence and seduction; my words, more than from me, issue from the warm nights, from the many solitary nights on the Red Sea, and when the tiny dancer puts her arm around my neck, I understand that she understands. Magnificent language!

Absence is a house so vast that inside you will pass through its walls and hang pictures on the air.

Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood.

But when I call for a hero, out comes my lazy old self; so I never know who I am, nor how many I am or will be. I'd love to be able to touch a bell and summon the real me, because if I really need myself, I mustn't disappear.

When did the lemons learn the same creed as the sun?

The typewriter separated me from a deeper intimacy with poetry, and my hand brought me closer to that intimacy again.

Look around—there's only one thing of danger for you here—poetry.