Fue adondo a mi me perdieron quw logre por fin encontrarme? Was it where they lost me that I finally found myself?

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

Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude.

I was the owner of my own darkness.

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.

Poetry is an act of peace.

The morning is full of storm in the heart of summer. The clouds travel like white handkerchiefs of goodbye, the wind, travelling, waving them in its hands. The numberless heart of the wind beating above our loving silence. Orchestral and divine, resounding among the trees like a language full of wars and songs.