Poetry ¿What are you but the vision of night? Everything nocturnal is yours. You invite us to the splendid feasts of dreams and the just as splendid sleepless nights of reality. You travel with men and women as if you were the flame in their eyes, the staff of their happiness or the thick smoke of their dawns. For you, mother of pain, there are only glory and sorrow, noon is not written in your diaries. You, poetry, are nothing else than the highest peak where madmen, mortals, those that luck and fortune disinherit, find refuge. You, who are hated, leprous, festering, are the best of females, the best mother, the best wife, the best sister and the longest and most pleasurable night. Translated by Rowena Hill