In the house of poetry nothing endures that is not written with blood to be heard with blood.
The bare earth, plantless, waterless, is an immense puzzle. In the forests or beside rivers everything speaks to humans. The desert does not speak. I could not comprehend its tongue; its silence...
In love, you have loosened yourself like seawater
For now I ask no more Than the justice of eating.
Like them you are tall and taciturn, and you are sad, all at once, like a voyage.
Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots?