Sufre Mas El Que Espera Siempre Que

We Bear The Sole, Relentless Tenderness.

And That's Why I Have To Go Back To So Many Places There To Find Myself And Constantly Examine Myself With No Witness But The Moon And Then Whistle With Joy, Ambling Over Rocks And Clods Of Earth, With No Task But To Live, With No Family But The Road.

Poetry Is An Act Of Peace.

I No Longer Love Her, That's Certain, But Maybe I Love Her. Love Is So Short, Forgetting Is So Long.

What Will They Say About My Poetry Who Never Touched My Blood?