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

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

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.

The Truth is in the prolouge. Death to the romantic fool., the expert in solitary confinement.

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

Like them you are tall and taciturn, and you are sad, all at once, like a voyage.

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.