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.
Just as the light and weightless vegetation of saltpeter floats over the old walls of houses as soon as the owner gets careless, so the literary vocation springs up in you.
Ever since I got married I’ve been thinking night and day about whose fault it was, and every time I think about it, out comes a new fault to eat up the old one; but always there’s a fault left.
In Spain, the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world.
The mirror is the mother dew, the book of desiccated twilights, echo become flesh.
My poetry is a game. My life is a game. But I am not a game.
The dancer’s trembling heart must bring everything into harmony, from the tips of her shoes to the flutter of her eyelashes, from the ruffles of her dress to the incessant play of her fingers.
A poet must be a professor of the five senses and must open doors among them.
Everything’s a fan. Brother, open up your arms. God is the pivot.
My head is full of fire and grief and my tongue runs wild, pierced with shards of glass.
If blue is dream what then innocence? What awaits the heart if Love bears no arrows?
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.
Today in my heart a vague trembling of stars and all roses are as white as my pain.
The night below. We two. Crystal of pain. You wept over great distances. My ache was a clutch of agonies over your sickly heart of sand.
Green how I love you green. Green wind. Green boughs. The ship on the sea And the horse on the mountain.
Old women can see through walls.
Oh honey, there’s nothing new on this earth when it comes to what men and women do in the dark. First love is when you learn. So you’ve learned that love can open you up like spring sun on a wee primrose. Good. Remember that. You know how to love.
Pero yo ya no soy yo Ni mi casa es ya mi casa. But now I am no longer I, nor is my house any longer my house.
I have often lost myself in the sea, ears full of newly cut flowers, tongue full of love and agony.
At first glance, the rhythm may be confused with gaiety, but when you look more closely at the mechanism of social life and the painful slavery of both men and machines, you see that it is nothing but a kind of typical, empty anguish that makes even crime and gangs forgivable means of escape.