I have never thought of my life as divided between poetry and politics.

I do not love you-except because I love you; I go from loving to not loving you, from waiting to not waiting for you my heart moves from the cold into the fire.

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

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.

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

La heradera del dia destruida. (The heiress of the destroyed day.)

You are like night, calmed, constellated. Your silence is star-like, as distant, as true.