Your house sounds like a train at midday, the wasps buzz, the saucepans sing, the waterfall enumerates the deeds of the dew . . .

You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming.

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

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

I do not love you-except because I love you; I go from loving to not loving you, from waiting to not waiting for you my heart moves from the cold into the fire.

Over your breasts of motionless current, over your legs of firmness and water, over the permanence and the pride of your naked hair I want to be, my love, now that the tears are thrown into the raucous baskets where they accumulate, I want to be, my love, alone with a syllable of mangled silver, alone with a tip of your breast of snow.

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