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

Como se reparten el sol en el naranjo las naranjas? How do the oranges divide up sunlight in the orange tree?

But I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me.

Peace goes into the making of a poem as flour goes into the making of bread.

Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

My duty moves along with my song: I am I am not: that is my destiny. I exist not if I do not attend to the pain of those who suffer: they are my pains. For I cannot be without existing for all, for all who are silent and oppressed, I come from the people and I sing for them: my poetry is song and punnishment.

Hands make the world each day.