Every day you play with the light of the universe.

I love all things, not only the grand but the infinitely small: thimble, spurs, plates, flower vases.

And what has become of it, where is that onetime love? Now it is the grave of a bird, a drop of black quartz, a chunk of wood eroded by the rain.

Fue adondo a mi me perdieron quw logre por fin encontrarme? Was it where they lost me that I finally found myself?

Today is today, and yesterday is gone. There is no doubt.

Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots?

But when I call for a hero, out comes my lazy old self; so I never know who I am, nor how many I am or will be. I'd love to be able to touch a bell and summon the real me, because if I really need myself, I mustn't disappear.