Without doubt I praise the wild excellence.

I had no more alphabet than the journeying of the swallows, the pure and tiny water of the small, fiery bird that dances rising from the pollen.

Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.

And when you appear all the rivers sound in my body, bells shake the sky, and a hymn fills the world.

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 want to do for you what the spring does for the cherry trees

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.