The front windows as are the watchmen of grief - I've been looking beyond expectation - Beyond myself - and I do not know as I love you - Which one of us is missing.

The language of my love does not belong to human language, my human body does not touch the flesh of my love.

The curve of your eyes goes around my heart, A round of dance and sweetness, Halo of time, nocturnal and safe cradle, And if I don't know any more all that I've lived through It's because I haven't always been seen by you.

Your eyes in which I travel Have given to signs along the roads A meaning alien to the earth.

All my desires are born of my dreams. And I have proven my love with words. To what fantastic creatures have I entrusted myself, in what dolorous and ravishing world has my imagination enclosed me? I am sure of having been loved in the most mysterious of domains, my own. The language of my love does not belong to human language, my human body does not touch the flesh of my love. My amorous imagination has always been constant and high enough so that nothing could attempt to convince me of error.

The poet is he who inspires, rather than he who is inspired.

Even when we sleep we watch over one another.