The Poet Is An Untier

All Night I Have Suffered; All Night My Flesh Has Trembled To Bring Forth Its Gift. The Sweat Of Death Is On My Forehead; But It Is Not Death, It Is Life!

Let The Earth Look At Me, And Bless Me, For Now I Am Fecund And Sacred, Like The Palms And The Furrows.

You Shall Create Beauty Not To Excite The Senses But To Give Sustenance To The Soul.

I Have All That I Lost And I Go Carrying My Childhood Like A Favorite Flower That Perfumes My Hand.

Speech Is Our Second Possession, After The Soul-and Perhaps We Have No Other Possession In This World.