The best poet is the man who delivers our daily bread: the local baker.
Who do I belong to? How come I mortgaged my being till I don't belong to myself? How come I sold my blood? And who now owns my indecisions, my hands, my private pain, my pride?
How much does a man live, after all?/ Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries?/ How long does a man spend dying?/ What does it mean to say 'for ever'?
I think it was very informative, but a lot still needs to be done.
Death is the stone into which our oblivion hardens.
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
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.
Pale blind diver, luckless slinger, lost discoverer, in you everything sank!
Like them you are tall and taciturn, and you are sad, all at once, like a voyage.
Fue adondo a mi me perdieron quw logre por fin encontrarme? Was it where they lost me that I finally found myself?
I learned about life from life itself, love I learned in a single kiss and could teach no one anything except that I have lived with something in common among men.
To love is to tilt with the lightning, two bodies routed by a single honey's sweet.
Oh to follow the road that leads away from everything, without anguish, death, winter waiting along it with their eyes open through the dew.
What can I say without touching the earth with my hands?
The hardest way of learning is that of easy reading.
In love, you have loosened yourself like seawater
Am I allowed to ask my book / whether it's true I wrote it?
I stood on the balcony dark with mourning... hoping the earth would spread its wings in my uninhabited love.
Love! Love until the night collapses!
The Truth is in the prolouge. Death to the romantic fool., the expert in solitary confinement.
Will our life not be a tunnel between two vague clarities? Or will it not be a clarity between two dark triangles?
It's hard to tell / if we close our eyes or if night / opens in us other starred eyes, / if it burrows into the wall of our dream / till some other door opens. / But the dream is only the flitting costume of one moment, / is spent in one beat / of the darkness, / and falls at our feet, cast off / as the day stirs and sails away with us.
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.
I've come within range of hate. Terrifying, its tremors, its dizzying obsessions. Hate's like a swordfish invisible in the water, knifing suddenly into sight with blood on its blade- clear water misleads you.
I had no more alphabet than the journeying of the swallows, the pure and tiny water of the small, fiery bird that dances rising from the pollen.
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