Green Was The Silence, Wet Was The

I Am Made Of Earth, And My Song Made Of Words.

Why Do Trees Conceal The Splendor Of Their Roots?

Nobody Can Claim The Name Of Pedro, Nobody Is Rosa Or María, All Of Us Are Dust Or Sand, All Of Us Are Rain Under Rain. They Have Spoken To Me Of Venezuelas, Of Chiles And Paraguays; I Have No Idea What They Are Saying. I Know Only The Skin Of The Earth And I Know It Has No Name.

In This Part Of The Story I Am The One Who Dies, The Only One, And I Will Die Of Love Because I Love You, Because I Love You, Love, In Fire And In Blood.

Two Things Make A Story. The Net And The Air That Falls Through The Net.