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.

I move in the university of the waves.

The best poet is the man who delivers our daily bread: the local baker.

I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter.

Whom can I ask what I came to make happen in this world? Why do I move without wanting to, why am I not able to sit still? Why do I go rolling without wheels, flying without wings or feathers, and why did I decide to migrate if my bones live in Chile?

I was the owner of my own darkness.

Sufre mas el que espera siempre que aquel que nunca espero a nadie? Does he who is always waiting suffer more than he who’s never waited for anyone?