I do not envy the poets like Neruda and Buesa, like Campoamor or like others, just like never, not to mention, neither their beauty, nor to speak, neither love nor the stars...
Of you, they did not know you...
And i had the joy of having know, of living in your arms, the sweet pleasure and writing the poem that nobody has known, because i wrote it in your soul...
VERY INSIDE YOUR BEING.
