The tram that has run off the rails thinks it is independent.
The power that boasts of its mischiefs is laughed at by the yellow leaves that fall, and clouds that pass by.
We, the Basques, are a doubly chosen people. The north by the French and the south by the Spaniards.
Every silence performs its own swan song.
Poetry is like a halo of a star. It expands when seen through the crystal of a tear.
"Are you too proud to kiss me?" the morning light asks the buttercup.
History makes one admire Napoleon's bloody romanticism just as cartoons make one grow fond of the loathsome mice.
The burning log bursts in flame and cries, - "This is my flower, my death."
Life has become richer by the love that has been lost.
I spill water from my water jar as I walk on my way, Very little remains for my home.