The word can't cope with my load of anguish,/and my exalted pain can't fit in my verse. - Julia de Burgos

It must be the caress of the useless,/the endless sadness of being a poet,/of singing and singing, without breaking/the peerless tragedy of existence.

yo soy toda soledad/en un corazon rebelde

Whoever judges my soul by the skin that blankets me/doesn't even extend herself to what her voice reaches.