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.

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.

And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

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)

Every day you play with the light of the universe.

I am everybody and every time, I always call myself by your name.

We must dream our way.

He who has nothing—it has been said many times—has nothing to lose but his chains.

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.

In one kiss, you'll know all I haven't said.

Donde termina el arco iris, en tu alma o en el horizonte? Where does the rainbow end, in your soul or on the horizon?

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.

Each hour, Each day

I need the sea because it teaches me

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.

Sometimes a piece of sun burned like a coin in my hand.

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?

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.

The birds of night peck at the first stars that flash like my soul when I love you.

You get a little moody sometimes but I think that's because you like to read. People that like to read are always a little fucked up.

Happiness is an accident of nature, a beautiful and flawless aberration.

Music could ache and hurt, that beautiful music was a place a suffering man could hide.

Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends, but is played out over and over again in the quietest chambers. The mind can never break off from the journey.

Without music and dance, life is a journey through a desert.

I don’t know why it is that I have always been happier thinking of somewhere I have been or wanted to go, than where I am at the time. I find it difficult to be happy in the present.

A story untold could be the one that kills you.

I’ve never had anyone’s approval, so I’ve learned to live without it.

My wound is geography. It is also my anchorage, my port of call.

I could bear the memory, but I could not bear the music that made the memory such a killing thing.

Fantasy is one of the soul's brighter porcelains.

When mom and dad went to war the only prisoners they took were the children

Here is all I ask of a book- give me everything. Everything, and don't leave out a single word.

We set down feasts for each other and treated our love with tongues of fire. Our bodies were fields of wonder to us.

Her laughter was a shiny thing, like pewter flung high in the air.

These are the quicksilver moments of my childhood I cannot remember entirely. Irresistible and emblematic, I can recall them only in fragments and shivers of the heart.

Anyone who knows me well must understand and be sympathetic to my genuine need to be my own greatest hero. It is not a flaw of character; it is a catastrophe.

The only word for goodness is goodness, and it is not enough.

Rape is a crime against sleep and memory; it's afterimage imprints itself like an irreversible negative from the camera obscura of dreams.