I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Someday, somewhere - anywhere, unfailingly, you'll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.
I want To do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
As if you were on fire from within. The moon lives in the lining of your skin.
So I wait for you like a lonely house till you will see me again and live in me. Till then my windows ache.
You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep Spring from coming.
But I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Let us forget with generosity those who cannot love us
Laughter is the language of the soul.
You are like nobody since I love you.
To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.
In this part of the story I am the one who dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you, because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood.
Only do not forget, if I wake up crying it's only because in my dream I'm a lost child hunting through the leaves of the night for your hands....
My feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping but I shall go on living.
And one by one the nights between our separated cities are joined to the night that unites us.
Then love knew it was called love. And when I lifted my eyes to your name, suddenly your heart showed me my way
I am no longer in love with her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I don’t know any other way of loving.
It was at that age that poetry came in search of me.
Love! Love until the night collapses!
I got lost in the night, without the light of your eyelids, and when the night surrounded me I was born again: I was the owner of my own darkness.
In what language does rain fall over tormented cities?
It was my destiny to love and say goodbye.
I hunger for your sleek laugh and your hands the color of a furious harvest. I want to eat the sunbeams flaring in your beauty.
And I, infinitesimal being, drunk with the great starry void, likeness, image of mystery, I felt myself a pure part of the abyss, I wheeled with the stars, my heart broke loose on the wind.
While I'm writing, I'm far away; and when I come back, I've gone.
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
Love is the mystery of water and a star.
If suddenly you do not exist, If suddenly you are not living, I shall go on living. I do not dare, I do not dare to write it, if you die. I shall go on living.
Give me silence, water, hope Give me struggle, iron, volcanoes.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south? Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.
At night I dream that you and I are two plants that grew together, roots entwined, and that you know the earth and the rain like my mouth, since we are made of earth and rain.
Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes?
If nothing saves us from death, at least love should save us from life
Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.
Bitter love, a violet with it's crown of thorns in a thicet of spiky passions, spear of sorrow, corolla of rage: how did you come to conquer my soul? What brought you?
I want to see thirst In the syllables, Tough fire In the sound; Feel through the dark For the scream.
Here I came to the very edge where nothing at all needs saying...and every day on the balcony of the sea wings open fire is born and everything is blue again like morning.
My soul is an empty carousel at sunset.
Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood.
Poetry is an act of peace. Peace goes into the making of a poet as flour goes into the making of bread.
And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy.
About me, nothing worse they will tell you, my love, than what I told you
I love you as one loves certain dark things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
In the eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.
I don't want to go on being a root in the dark, vacillating, stretched out, shivering with sleep, downward, in the soaked guts of the earth, absorbing and thinking, eating each day.
By night, Love, tie your heart to mine, and the two together in their sleep will defeat the darkness
I like on the table, when we're speaking, the light of a bottle of intelligent wine.
I don’t love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz or arrow of carnations that propagate fire: I love you as certain dark things are loved, secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love all things, not only the grand but the infinitely small: thimble, spurs, plates, flower vases.....
Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness And the infinite tenderness shattered you like a jar.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.
How much does a man live, after all?/ Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries?/ How long does a man spend dying?/ What does it mean to say 'for ever'?
I love you only because it's you the one I love; I hate you deeply, and hating you Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.
There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.
Love is a clash of lightnings
With your name on my mouth and a kiss that never broke away from yours.
Your wide eyes are the only light I know from extinguished constellations.
And our problems will crumble apart, the soul / blow through like a wind, and here where we live will all be clean again, with fresh bread on the table.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
Sometimes i get up at dawn, and even my soul is wet.
I want to see the thirst inside the syllables I want to touch the fire in the sound: I want to feel the darkness of the cry. I want words as rough as virgin rocks.” - Verb.
With which stars do they go on speaking,the rivers that never reach the sea?
I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.
When I got the chance I asked them a slew of questions. They offered to burn me; it was the only thing they knew.
Absence is a house so vast that inside you will pass through its walls and hang pictures on the air.
En el amor, como agua del mar te has desatado. (In love, you have loosened yourself like seawater)
We must dream our way.
Every day you play with the light of the universe.
I am everybody and every time, I always call myself by your name.
He who has nothing—it has been said many times—has nothing to lose but his chains.
In one kiss, you'll know all I haven't said.
Everything is so alive, that I can be alive. Without moving I can see it all. In your life I see everything that lives.
Like a jar you housed the infinite tenderness, and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.
Donde termina el arco iris, en tu alma o en el horizonte? Where does the rainbow end, in your soul or on the horizon?
The birds of night peck at the first stars that flash like my soul when I love you.
And what importance do I have in the courtroom of oblivion?
I love you as one loves certain dark things.
Our love was born outside the walls, in the wind, in the night, in the earth, and that's why the clay and the flower, the mud and the roots know your name.
From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.
A bibliophile of little means is likely to suffer often. Books don't slip from his hands but fly past him through the air, high as birds, high as prices.
Each hour, Each day
I need the sea because it teaches me
I have named you queen. There are taller than you, taller. There are purer than you, purer. There are lovelier than you, lovelier. But you are the queen.
Where were you then? Who else was there? Saying what? Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly when I am sad and feel you are far away?
Sometimes a piece of sun burned like a coin in my hand.