Like them you are tall and taciturn, and you are sad, all at once, like a voyage.

sometimes i get up at dawn, and even my soul is wet.

Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain. I love you still among these cold things. Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels that cross the sea towards no arrival. I see myself forgotten like those old anchors. The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there. My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose. I love what I do not have. You are so far. My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights. But night comes and starts to sing to me.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

A book, a book full of human touches, of shirts, a book without loneliness, with men and tools, a book is victory.

Under your skin the moon is alive.

Death arrives among all that sound like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it, comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no finger in it, comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue,with no throat. Nevertheless its steps can be heard and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.