« I fear losing the wonder
of your statue-like eyes, and the accent
that, during the night, the solitary rose of your breath places on my cheek.
I grieve to be on this shore
nothing but a trunk without branches; and what grieves me
is not having the flower, pulp or clay,
for the worm of my suffering.
And if you are my hidden treasure,
if you are my cross, my wet sorrow,
if I am the dog of your domain,
do not let me lose what I have gained,
and adorn the waters of your river
with the leaves of my desolate autumn. » (Frederico Garcia Lorca)