“In the green morningI wanted to be a heart.A heart. And in the ripe eveningI wanted to be a nightingale.A nightingale. (Soul,turn orange-colored.Soul,turn the color of love.) In the vivid morningI wanted to be myself.A heart. And at the evening's endI wanted to be my voice.A nightingale. Soul,turn orange-colored.Soul,turn the color of love.- Ditty of First Desire”

“The river GuadalquivirFlows between oranges and olivesThe two rivers of GranadaDescend from the snow to the wheatOh my love!Who went and never returnedThe river GuadalquivirHas beards of maroonThe two rivers of GranadaOne a cry the other bloodOh my love!Who vanished into thin air”

“But hurry, let's entwine ourselves as one, our mouth broken, our soul bitten by love, so time discovers us safely destroyed.”

“The night above. We two. Full moon.I started to weep, you laughed.Your scorn was a god, my lamentsmoments and doves in a chain.The night below. We two. Crystal of pain.You wept over great distances.My ache was a clutch of agoniesover your sickly heart of sand.Dawn married us on the bed,our mouths to the frozen spoutof unstaunched blood.The sun came through the shuttered balconyand the coral of life opened its branchesover my shrouded heart.- Night of Sleepless Love”

“Here I want to see those men of hard voice. Those that break horses and dominate rivers; those men of sonorous skeleton who sing with a mouth full of sun and flint.”

“A light which lives on what the flames devour,a grey landscape surrounding me with scorch,a crucifixion by a single wound,a sky and earth that darken by each hour,a sob of blood whose red ribbon adornsa lyre without a pulse, and oils the torch,a tide which stuns and strands me on the reef,a scorpion scrambling, stinging in my chest--this is the wreath of love, this bed of thornsis where I dream of you stealing my rest,haunting these sunken ribs cargoed with grief.I sought the peak of prudence, but I foundthe hemlock-brimming valley of your heart,and my own thirst for bitter truth and art.- Stigmata of Love”

“The weeping of the guitar begins. The goblets of dawn are smashed. The weeping of the guitar begins. Useless to silence it. Impossible to silence it. It weeps monotonously as water weeps as the wind weeps over snowfields. Impossible to silence it. It weeps for distant things. Hot southern sands yearning for white camellias. Weeps arrow without target evening without morning and the first dead bird on the branch. Oh, guitar! Heart mortally wounded by five swords.”