The wind fled into the heights, shrieking mournfully. A washed-out, cold sun shot its arrows down upon that barren hill.
Original text (Spanish)
Original text (Spanish)
Mother and poetess do not rhyme, but they go together rather well.
How the earth sings as it spins!/Sings the lightness of its flight,/its freedom, its grace, its joy.
I have confidence not so much in my own abilities as in the generosity of everyone else.
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