Let us forget with generosity those who cannot love us

I was the owner of my own darkness.

From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.

so I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

For now I ask no more Than the justice of eating.

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

Your house sounds like a train at midday, the wasps buzz, the saucepans sing, the waterfall enumerates the deeds of the dew . . .