I want to cry because I feel like it — the way children cry in the last row of seats — because I am not a man, not a poet, not a leaf,
only a wounded pulse that probes the things of the other side.

El más terrible de todos los sentimientos es el sentimiento de tener la esperanza muerta.

The night above. We two. Full moon.
I started to weep, you laughed.
Your scorn was a god, my laments
moments and doves in a chain.
The night below. We two. Crystal of pain.
You wept over great distances.
My ache was a clutch of agonies
over your sickly heart of sand.
Dawn married us on the bed,
our mouths to the frozen spout
of unstaunched blood.
The sun came through the shuttered balcony
and the coral of life opened its branches
over my shrouded heart.

- <i>Night of Sleepless Love</i>