With my little terrestrial bird, my rustic earthen jug, I break out singing the guitar's rain: alleged autumn arrives like a load of firewood, decanting the aroma that flew through the mountains, and grape by grape my kisses were joined to her bunch
I cannot measure the road which may have had no country, or that truth which changed, which the day perhaps subdued to become a wandering light like a firefly in the dark.
It comes on like a flower from the earth advancing with decisive aroma up to the magnitude of the magnolia; but this flower from the depths already burst brings along all the light ever abolished, all the branches that never burned and all the spring-source of whiteness
O love, how quickly you built a sweet firmness where the wounds had been! You fought off the talons and claws, and now we stand as a single life before the world.