A poet must be a professor of the five senses and must open doors among them.
Moon like a large stainedglass window that breaks on the ocean.
...I am the immense shadow of my tears
In our eyes the roads are endless. Two are crossroads of the shadow.
The only things that the United States has given to the world are skyscrapers, jazz, and cocktails. That is all. And in Cuba, in our America, they make much better cocktails.
We're all curious about what might hurt us.
The important thing in life is to let the years carry us along.
Life is laughter amid a rosary of death.
I put my head out of my window and see how much the wind’s knife wants to slice it off. On this unseen guillotine, I’ve placed the eyeless head of all my desires.
In each thing there is an insinuation of death. Stillness, silence, serenity are all apprenticeships.
I want to be a poet, from head to toe, living and dying by poetry.
But hurry, let's entwine ourselves as one, our mouth broken, our soul bitten by love, so time discovers us safely destroyed.
What shall I say about poetry? What shall I say about those clouds, or about the sky? Look; look at them; look at it! And nothing more. Don't you understand anything about poetry? Leave that to the critics and the professors. For neither you, nor I, nor any poet knows what poetry is.
There is nothing more poetic and terrible than the skyscrapers' battle with the heavens that cover them.
Those who are afraid of death will carry it on their shoulders.
What's the furthest corner? Because that's where I want to be, alone with the only thing that I love.
The two elements the traveler first captures in the big city are extra human architecture and furious rhythm. Geometry and anguish.
I was lucky enough to see with my own eyes the recent stock-market crash, where they lost several million dollars, a rabble of dead money that went sliding off into the sea.
I'll always be happy if they'd leave me alone in that delightful and unknown furthest corner, apart from struggles, putrefactions and nonsense; the ultimate corner of sugar and toast, where the mermaids catch the branches of the willows and the heart opens to a flute's sharpness.
The weeping of the guitar begins. The goblets of dawn are smashed. The weeping of the guitar begins. Useless to silence it. Impossible to silence it. It weeps monotonously as water weeps as the wind weeps over snowfields. Impossible to silence it. It weeps for distant things. Hot southern sands yearning for white camellias. Weeps arrow without target evening without morning and the first dead bird on the branch. Oh, guitar! Heart mortally wounded by five swords.
Theatre is poetry that rises from the book and becomes human enough to talk and shout, weep and despair
The bride, the white bride today a maiden, tomorrow a wife.
To see you naked is to recall the Earth.
My God, I have come with the seeds of questions. I planted them, and they never flowered.
In the garden I will die. In the rosebush they will kill me.
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