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

You are like night, calmed, constellated. Your silence is star-like, as distant, as true.

I have named you queen. There are taller than you, taller. There are purer than you, purer. There are lovelier than you, lovelier. But you are the queen.

Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots?

Maybe nothingness is to be without your presence, without you moving, slicing the noon like a blue flower, without you walking later through the fog and the cobbles, without the light you carry in your hand, golden, which maybe others will not see, which maybe no one knew was growing like the red beginnings of a rose. In short, without your presence: without your coming suddenly, incitingly, to know my life, gust of a rosebush, wheat of wind: since then I am because you are, since then you are, I am, we are, and through love I will be, you will be, we will be.

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

I am made of earth, and my song made of words.