There is no space wider than that of grief.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines...Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her.
Sufre mas el que espera siempre que aquel que nunca espero a nadie? Does he who is always waiting suffer more than he who’s never waited for anyone?
And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy.