In all the farewells in all the airports in all the profane dawns.
In the Fiat with no documents on the road to Madrid. At the
Corrida. In the Lope de Vega, the Annalena, the Jerome. In time
past, time lost, time yet to pass. In poetry. In watery deserts, on
arid seas, between desserts and seas. In sickness and in health. In
pain and in the celebration of pain. In the delivery room. In the
garden. In the hammock under the aspen. In all the emergencies. In
the waterfall. In toleration. In retaliation. In rhyme. Among cherry
blossoms blowing in wet, blowing snow, weren’t we something?