Who do I belong to? How come I mortgaged my being till I don't belong to myself? How come I sold my blood? And who now owns my indecisions, my hands, my private pain, my pride?

Donde termina el arco iris, en tu alma o en el horizonte? Where does the rainbow end, in your soul or on the horizon?

Will our life not be a tunnel between two vague clarities? Or will it not be a clarity between two dark triangles?

From scarlet to powdered gold, to blazing yellow, to the rare ashen emerald, to the orange and black velvet of your shimmering corselet, out to the tip that like an amber thorn begins you, small, superlative being, you are a miracle, and you blaze

When everything seems to be set to show me off as intelligent, the fool I always keep hidden takes over all that I say.

Cómo se acuerda con los pájaros la traducción de sus idiomas?

Love is the mystery of water and a star.