Old Women Can See Through Walls.

Woodcutter. Cut My Shadow From Me. Free Me From The Torment Of Being Without Fruit. Why Was I Born Among Mirrors? Day Goes Round And Round Me. The Night Copies Me In All Its Stars. I Want To Live Without My Reflection. And Then Let Me Dream That Ants And Thistledown Are My Leaves And My Parrots.

Death, Lonely Death, Beneath The Withered Leaves.

The Gitano Is The Most Distinguished, Profound And Aristocratic Element In My Country, The One That Most Represents Its Way Of Being And Best Preserves The Fire, The Blood And The Alphabet Of Andalusian And Universal Truth.

Hour Of Stars (1920) The Round Silence Of Night, One Note On The Stave Of The Infinite. Ripe With Lost Poems, I Step Naked Into The Street. The Blackness Riddled By The Singing Of Crickets: Sound, That Dead Will-o'-the-wisp, That Musical Light Perceived By The Spirit. A Thousand Butterfly Skeletons Sleep Within My Walls. A Wild Crowd Of Young Breezes Over The River.

The World Is A Shoulder Of Dark Meat (black Flesh Of An Old Mule). And The Light Is On The Other Side.