I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
Tonight I can write the saddest linesI 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.
In this part of the story I am the one whodies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood.
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.
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.
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.
By night, Love, tie your heart to mine, and the two together in their sleep will defeat the darkness
You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep Spring from coming.
Donde termina el arco iris,en tu alma o en el horizonte?Where does the rainbow end,in your soul or on the horizon?
Sólo con una ardiente paciencia conquistaremos la espléndida ciudad que dará luz, justicia y dignidad a todos los hombres. Así la poesía no habrá cantado en vano.
Absence is a house so vast that inside you will pass through its walls and hang pictures on the air.
We the mortals touch the metals,the wind, the ocean shores, the stones,knowing they will go on, inert or burning,and I was discovering, naming all the these things:it was my destiny to love and say goodbye.
It was at that agethat poetry came in search of me.
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.
Green was the silence, wet was the light,the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
I want to see thirstIn the syllables,Tough fireIn the sound;Feel through the darkFor the scream.
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.
Poetry is an act of peace. Peace goes into the making of a poet as flour goes into the making of bread.
I love all things, not only the grand but the infinitely small: thimble, spurs, plates, flower vases…..
Quiero hacer contigo lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos
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.
Our love was bornoutside the walls,in the wind,in the night,in the earth,and that’s why the clay and the flower,the mud and the rootsknow your name.
So the freshness lives onin a lemon,in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,the proportions, arcane and acerb.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.
Escóndeme en tus brazospor esta noche sola,mientras la lluvia rompecontra el mar y la tierrasu boca innumerable.
La heradera del dia destruida.(The heiress of the destroyed day.)
A book,a book fullof human touches,of shirts,a bookwithout loneliness, with menand tools,a bookis victory.
Soy el desesperado, la palabra sin ecos, el que lo perdiò todo, y el que todo lo tuvo.
Las lágrimas que no se lloranesperan en pequeños lagos?O serán ríos invisiblesque corren hacia la tristeza?
I shivered in thosesolitudeswhen I heardthe voiceofthe saltin the desert.
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?
yo te amo para comenzar a amarte,para recomenzar el infinitoy para no dejar de amarte nunca:por eso no te amo todavía.
I like for you to be still: it is as though you are absentdistant and full of sorrow as though you had diedOne word then, one smile is enoughAnd I’m happy; happy that it’s not true
By night, beloved, tie your heart to mineand let them both in dreams defeat the darkness
You are the trembling of time, that passesbetween vertical light and darkened sky,
You, in bloom, heart, beloved,you are like the foliage of the sky over my eyesand I look at you lying on the earth
my beauty, flower by flower, star by star,wave by wave, love, I have counted your body.
My ugly one, I love you for your waist of gold,my beauty, I love you because of a wrinkle on your forehead,love, I love you because you are clear and dark.
With which stars do they go on speaking,the rivers that never reach the sea?
Come see the cherry trees of a water constellationand the round key of the rapid universe,come touch the fire of instantaneous blue,come before its petals are consumed.
Naked you are blue like the night in Cuba,you have vines and stars in your hair,
from that terrible love the soft pure handsgave peace to my eyes and sun to my senses.
Love brought its tail of pains,its long static beam of thorns,and we close our eyes so that nothing,so that no wound will separate us.
No one will retrieve my lost heartamidst so many roots, in the bitter freshnessof the sun multiplied by the fury of the water,there the shadow lives that does not travel with me.
And the heart sounds like a sour conch,calls, oh sea, oh lament, oh molten panic,scattered in the unlucky and disheveled waves:the sea reports sonorouslyon its languid shadows, its green poppies.
With kisses your mouth taught memy lips came to know fire.
I love you in order to begin loving you,to start infinity againand never to stop loving you:that is why I do not love you yet.
I love you without knowing how, nor when, nor from where,I love you directly without problems or pride:I love you this way because I know no other way to love,
I have hunger for your mouth, for your voice, for your hair
Oh invade me with your scalding mouth,search me if you like, with your nocturnal eyes,but allow me to sail and sleep upon your name.
I love the piece of earth you are,because in all the planetary prairiesI do not have another star. You repeatthe multiplication of the universe.
beyond the earth and the shadowthe brightness of our love will stay alive
I repeated: come with me, as if I were dying,and no one saw in my mouth the moon that was bleeding,no one saw the blood that was rising into the silence.Oh love, now let us forget the star with thorns!
Of so much moon were your hips to me,of all the sun your deep mouth and its delight,of so much burning light like honey in the shade
Como se reparten el sol en el naranjo las naranjas?How do the oranges divide up sunlight in the orange tree?
I want to see the thirstinside the syllablesI want to touch the firein the sound:I want to feel the darknessof the cry. I wantwords as roughas virgin rocks.” – Verb.
Do you not hear the constant victory,in the human footraceof time, slow as fire,sure, and thick and Herculeanaccumulating its volume and adding its sad fiber?
I love you like the plant that does not bloomand carries in itself, hidden, the light of those flowers,
Oh, beloved, and there is nothing but shadowswhere you accompany me in your dreamsand tell me the hour of light.
I know you exist not just because your eyes flyand give light to things like an open window
I will die kissing your mad cold mouth,embracing the lost bouquet of your body,and searching for the light of your closed eyes
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.To hear the immense night, still more immense without her,And the verse falls to the snow like dew to the pasture.
I remember you with my soul clenched in that sadness of mine that you know.
Like them you are tall and taciturn, and you are sad, all at once, like a voyage.
I loved you without knowing it, and I looked for your memory.In empty houses I entered with a lantern to steal your portrait
Sufre mas el que espera siempreque aquel que nunca espero a nadie?Does he who is always waiting suffer more than he who’s never waited for anyone?
Por que en las epocas oscurasse escribe con tinta invisible?Why in the darkest agesdo they write with invisible ink?
At night I dream that you and I are two plantsthat grew together, roots entwined,and that you know the earth and the rain like my mouth,since we are made of earth and rain.
Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Do tears not yet spilledwait in small lakes?Or are they invisible riversthat run toward sadness?
Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood.
It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour which the night fastens to all timetables.
I do not love you except because I love you;I go from loving to not loving you,From waiting to not waiting for youMy heart moves from cold to fire.
I learned about lifefrom life itself,love I learned in a single kissand could teach no one anythingexcept that I have livedwith something in common among men.
Joyful, joyful, joyful,as only dogs know how to be happywith only the autonomyof their shameless spirit.
Take bread away from me, if you wish,take air away, butdo not take from me your laughter.
Child who does not play is not a child, but the man who does not play has lost forever the child who lived within him and who he will miss terribly
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
I had no more alphabetthan the journeying of the swallows,the pure and tiny waterof the small, fiery birdthat dances rising from the pollen.
So close that your hand upon my chest is mine,so close that your eyes close with my sleep.
While I’m writing, I’m far away;and when I come back, I’ve gone.
The books that help you most are those which make you think that most. The hardest way of learning is that of easy reading; but a great book that comes from a great thinker is a ship of thought, deep freighted with truth and beauty.
I want to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees.
You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming.
Peace goes into the making of a poem as flour goes into the making of bread.