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.

I spin on the circle of wave upon wave of the sea.

Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss.

Without doubt I praise the wild excellence.

Como se reparten el sol en el naranjo las naranjas? How do the oranges divide up sunlight in the orange tree?

Love has to be…flowering like the stars, and measureless as a kiss.

To harden the earth the rocks took charge: instantly they grew wings: the rocks that soared: the survivors flew up the lightning bolt, screamed in the night, a watermark, a violet sword, a meteor. The succulent sky had not only clouds, not only space smelling of oxygen, but an earthly stone flashing here and there changed into a dove, changed into a bell, into immensity, into a piercing wind: into a phosphorescent arrow, into salt of the sky.