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

There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.

And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy.

He who has nothing—it has been said many times—has nothing to lose but his chains.

I am everybody and every time, I always call myself by your name.

Give me, for my life, all lives, give me all the pain of everyone, I'm going to turn it into hope. Give me all the joys, even the most secret, because otherwise how will these things be known? I have to tell them, give me the labors of everyday, for that's what I sing.

Hands make the world each day.