Blessed is the tree, which is only sensitive
and more hard rock because that no longer feels,
there is no pain greater than the pain of being alive,
regret that no more conscious life.

Being and not knowing anything, and without some direction,
and fear of being and a future terror …
And be sure ghost morning died,
and suffer for life and the shade and

what we do not know and only suspect,
and meat tempts with its fresh bunches,
and the tomb that awaits with funeral bouquets,

And not knowing where to go,
or where we come! …

Central American poet