Streams of light drench the street, the trees, the vacant facades. The moon is a fat egg, approaching roundness. I place the hose to send an arcing stream of water into the bed of sourgrass, and I watch the two streams mingle. Everywhere it falls but on the water, the moonlight is placid, illuminating a static world. On the gurgling stream it plays and flashes, reveals transient facets, mirrors its source in motile distortions. It is the fluid sun I see, twice removed, spilling into the dark soil, vanishing into roots.
by Octavio Paz
The cold lips of the night utter a word column of grief no word but stone no stone but shadow vaporous thoughts through my vaporous lips real water word of truth reason behind my errors If it is death only through that do I live if it is solitude I speak in serving it It is memory and I remember nothing I do not know what it says and I trust myself to it how to know oneself living how to forget one's knowing Time that half-opens the eyelids and sees us, letting itself be seen