I don't know who it is who lives or dies, who rests or wakes, but it is your heart that distributes all the graces of the daybreak in my breast.
La heradera del dia destruida. (The heiress of the destroyed day.)
Poetry is an act of peace.
To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.
Then Scale by scale, We strip off The delicacy And eat The peaceful mush Of its green heart.
He who has nothing—it has been said many times—has nothing to lose but his chains.