And here am I, budding among the ruins with only sorrow to bite on, as if weeping were a seed and I the earth's only furrow.

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

But from each crime are born bullets that will one day seek out in you where the heart lies.

Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body... and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart, like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running. So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes, and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans.

In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.