If only the peace I feel right nowcould be stored up and released laterwhen cruelty surrounds mein the darkduring nightmares.

My mind soarsand whirlsin a danceof wild fearand graceful hope.

Some people are born with words flowing in their veins.

Seventh grade. Eleven years old. A bookworm-misfit with long black braids, childish white socks, pointy pink glasses, and no courage for flirting. It’s doesn’t take long to learn that I’m ridiculous.

It’s a sight I plan to remember, this spontaneous unity when faced with disaster.

I don’t understand the whole thrilling verse, but I love the way poetry turns ordinary words into winged things that rise up and soar!

The whole world’s safety depends on the words of two men who are enemies.

Is there any way that two people from faraway places can ever really understand each other’s daydrems?

Opinions. Ideas. Possibilities. So many! How can I choose? Between bursts of lightning-swift energy, I enjoy peaceful moments when the whole world seems to be a flowing river of verse and all I have to do is learn how to swim.

In Latin America in general, and Cuba in particular, poets have been the inspiration behind struggles for independence, struggles for freedom of all sorts.