In Youth The Human Body Drew Me

When An Individual Fear Or Apathy Would Cause Us To Pass By The Unfortunate, Then Life Is Of No Account.

For Support, I Fall Back On My Heart. Has A Man Any Fault A Woman Cannot Weave With And Try To Change Into Something Better, If The God Her Man Prays To Is A Mother Holding A Baby?

All Poets And Story Tellers Alive Today Make A Single Brotherhood; They Are Engaged In A Single Work, Picturing Our Human Life. Whoever Pictures Life As He Sees It, Reassembles In His Own Way The Details Of Existence Which Affect Him Deeply, And So Creates A Spiritual World Of His Own.

Surely No One Can Be Sure He Has Visited Cienega; People Say To Themselves, Do They Not: 'was It A Vision; Or Have I, Some Time Or Other, Seen Dusk In A Valley Like This?'

In Youth The Human Body Drew Me And Was The Object Of My Secret And Natural Dreams. But Body After Body Has Taken Away From Me That Sensual Phosphorescence Which My Youth Delighted In.