You will fall with me as a stone in the grave.
Laugh at the night, at the day, at the moon, laugh at the twisted streets of the island, laugh at this clumsy boy who loves you, but when I open my eyes and close them, when my steps go, when my steps return, deny me bread, air, light, spring, but never your laughter for I would die.
I cannot quit your love without dying.
Through the mountains you go as a breeze comes.
My love has two lifetimes to love you. That’s how I can love you when I don’t, and still love you when I do.
I hold a dramatic and romantic concept of life; What doesn’t touch my senses means nothing to me.
I crave a love so deep, the ocean would be jealous.
Some poems survive it to become poems in another language,” he argued, “but others refuse to live in any language but their own, in which case the translator can manage no more than a reproduction, an effigy, of the original.
I was born anew, owner of my own darkness.
But the hour of vengeance falls, and I love you.
My kisses fell, happy as embers.
With a kiss you’ll know all I’ve kept quiet.
In my poems I could not shut the door to the street.
I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you.
Bring your substance deep down to me, heavily, covering my eyes, let your existence cut across me, supposing that my heart is destroyed.
It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour which the night fastens to all timetables.
Between the lips and the voice something goes dying.
Como un vaso albergaste la infinita ternura.
And I tell you that you should open yourselves to hearing an authentic poet, of the kind whose bodily senses were shaped in a world that is not our own and that few people are able to perceive. A poet closer to death than to philosophy, closer to pain than to intelligence, closer to blood than to ink.
Do you not see that the apple tree flowers only to die in the apple?