Conspirators in pajamas who exchange deep kisses for passwords.

Nobody can claim the name of Pedro, nobody is Rosa or María, all of us are dust or sand, all of us are rain under rain. They have spoken to me of Venezuelas, of Chiles and Paraguays; I have no idea what they are saying. I know only the skin of the earth and I know it has no name.

What does autumn go on paying for with so much yellow money?

Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit.

And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy. It climbs the same way on damp walls. You are to blame for this cruel sport. They are fleeing from my dark lair. You fill everything, you fill everything. Before you they peopled the solitude that you occupy, and they are more used to my sadness than you are. Now I want them to say what I want to say to you to make you hear as I want you to hear me.

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines...Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her.