Fue adondo a mi me perdieronquw logre por fin encontrarme?Was it where they lost methat I finally found myself?

Verde que te quiero verde. Verde viento. Verdes ramas. El barco sobre la mar y el caballo en la montaña.

Poetry is a finikin thing of airThat lives uncertainly and not for longYet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.

She lends her pen,to thoughts of him,that flow from it,in her solitary.For she is his poet,And he is her poetry.

I realizedJune had never beenjust a monthmusic...never just a trembleon my lipswarmth was nevermerely a blanket.

Exhaust the little moment. Soon it dies.And be it gash or gold it will not comeAgain in this identical disguise.

Sometimes the rainfallsjust for you and meto be the violinplaying in the backgroundof our loneliness's song.

Ye are better than all the balladsThat ever were sung or said;For ye are living poems,And all the rest are dead.

What will they say about my poetrywho never touched my blood?Que diran de mi poesialos que no tocaron mi sangre?

To write poetry and to commit suicide, apparently so contradictory, had really been the same, attempts at escape.

A mí me ha tocado no estar contigo; no tengo miradas para encontrarteni hay cosa en que pueda reconocerte.

No one can usurp the heights...But those to whom the miseries of the worldAre misery, and will not let them rest.

Cantando espero a la muerte, que hay ruiseñores que cantanencima de los fusilesy en medio de las batallas.

when man determined to destroy himself he picked the was of shall and finding only why smashed it into because

In scientific thinking are always present elements of poetry. Science and music requires a thought homogeneous.