I built up these lumber piles of love, and with fourteen boards each I built little houses, so that your eyes, which I adore and sing to, might live in them. Now that I have declared the foundations of my love, I surrender this century to you: wooden sonnets that rise only because you gave them life.

Perhaps this war will pass like the others which divided us leaving us dead, killing us along with the killers but the shame of this time puts its burning fingers to our faces. Who will erase the ruthlessness hidden in innocent blood?

Love, how many roads to obtain a kiss.

I want to do with you what the spring does with the cherry trees.

Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south? Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

So the freshness lives on in a lemon, in the sweet-smelling house of the rind, the proportions, arcane and acerb.

When everything seems to be set to show me off as intelligent, the fool I always keep hidden takes over all that I say.