I. Why does the butterfly of dreams sleep on rain’s teacup?
Is love knowing or unknowing?
Why does dew torment nascent tombstones?
How can the sea sing, with so much foam in his mouth?
Who lights up stars?

II. Do all the coins of meteors fall through the sky’s holey jacket?
Why when the poor rain sings it reminds me of your bluesy voice?
Is the comet’s exoskeleton of ash or honey?
Where does the solemn wake of stars terminate?
How many dreams are there in a night?

III. Are sorrows piled high like plates on the piney lands?
For whom does the road undress?
What bayoneted the fish of hope?
What if a dove entered a great clash of bloods?
Who drafts the manifesto of streetlamps?

IV. Is there anything freer than the tulip-barge approaching the isles of kisses?
Is the opaque night a cuckoo clock spewing silent stars?
What is the kindling of love’s fire?
Is the summit but iron’s mound of wineglasses?
Who paints autumn crimson?

V. Is the cedar indigent or is that her diadem of drunken stars?
Does the curtain obstruct the horizon and window’s affair?
Am I upon the mountain of melancholy or within the chasm of dream?
Does the flower close herself to avoid the sea’s prying spume-hands?
Are doors pistils of saloons?

VI. Are the notches of my eyes snowy or flowery?
Why do undressing secrets get heavier and heavier?
Am I an unlit candle in the conflagration of humans?
Are there unities in dissensions?
Are voices the sea’s entity, souls the sky’s, bones the land’s?

VII. What does the firefly dream of among the blue twilights?
Is my soul a window or a door?
Do people have roots?
Do lovers have hearts?
Do stars have prickles?

VIII. How can we tell solitude exists when she’s mute?
Is money an opiate, oil a liquor?
Is indulgence blind on Sundays?
What fills emptiness?
Does the fish of hope live in the net of caresses?

IX. Is all love in vain?
Were anguish’s silver waves born from the quarry of loneliness?
Why is life so capricious?
Is laughter a byproduct of weeping?
Are shutters the eyelids of houses?

X. Do roads live in voices or voices in roads?
What fuelled the infatuation between the streetcar and rain?
Does hope loath lighthouses?
When I die will a cherry tree germinate from my brow?
Do dim stars seduce Nativity-lights?

XI. Is the arms’ crucifix: corroded or oxidized?
Is everything moist with oblivion?
What if spring slept in, would it remain gelid?
Is wine the prophet of grapes?
Why do sad crows alight on drunken carillons?

XII. Did piety corrupt the cocotte?
Are serpents earth’s wires, suffusing despair in voltages of tears?
Did the hand of death strike Bethlehem?
Is my mouth full of blood or carnations, scald or foam?
Did the wind lash the shadowy river of mares?

XIII. Is fall’s pubis of gourds?
Are embers flame’s disciples?
Does chaff become stars?
Does night forge gold into comets?
When I am melancholic, is my compass allied with the falling sun?

XIV. Does love suddenly stop in the morning?
Is that when trains rise and get filled like tribunals?
Are the flame-lips of the cigar igniting the avenue of cedars?
How does day know of the existence of stars?
Do the carcasses of moons live in eternal rivers?

XV. Do these rivers sing to nude roses?
Did the rose’s roots entwine an eviction notice?
Does night consume the cake of tall stars with icing of snow?
Are leaves the elm’s tutu, gracefully swaying on the papery earth?
Did that elm become the understudy of the paper crane?

XVI. Who loves the unloved?
Why is my soul so much like a broken shackle?
Who hears the waters of time drowning the crystal days?
Does the vagrant smoke find shelter in the hearth?
Why does dawn gag dreams, insomnia slaughter them?