In the secret of night, my prayer climbs like the liana, My prayer is, and I am not. It grows, and I perish. I have only my hard breath, my reason and my madness. I cling to the vine of my prayer. I tend it at the root of the stalk of night.
Gabriela Mistral, Doris Dana (1971). “Selected poems of Gabriela Mistral”, Johns Hopkins Univ Pr
