Whom can I ask what I came to make happen in this world? Why do I move without wanting to, why am I not able to sit still? Why do I go rolling without wheels, flying without wings or feathers, and why did I decide to migrate if my bones live in Chile?

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

To feel the affection that comes from those whom we do not know ... widens out the boundaries of our being, and unites all living things.

Like a jar you housed the infinite tenderness, and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.

What can I say without touching the earth with my hands?

In the house of poetry nothing endures that is not written with blood to be heard with blood.

You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me.