You are a Universe of Universes And your Soul a source of Songs.

The treacheries of ambition never cease.

Sweet as sweetest Grecian honey will my song be when I sing, O Beloved, in the season of the Spring!

Poetry will exist as long as there is a problem of life and death

The America of Moctezuma and Atahualpa,the aromatic America of Columbus,Catholic America, Spanish America,the America where noble Cuauhtémoc said: "I am not on a bed of roses"-our America trembling with hurricanes, trembling with Love: O men with Saxon eyes and barbarous souls, our America lives. And dreams. And loves. And it is the daughter of the Sun. Be careful.

You are a Universe of Universes And your Soul a source of Songs.