Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem too insignificant for our concern? Yet in my heart I never will deny her, Who suffered death because she chose to turn.

I know beginnings, I know endings too, and life-in-death, and something else I'd rather not recall just now.

Hands, matches, an ashtray. A ritual beautiful and bitter.

The secret of secrets is inside me again.

I myself, from the very beginning, Seemed to myself like someone's dream or delirium Or a reflection in someone else's mirror, Without flesh, without meaning, without a name. Already I knew the list of crimes That I was destined to commit.

Italy is a dream that keeps returning for the rest of your life.

We learned not to meet anymore, We don't raise our eyes to one another, But we ourselves won't guarantee What could happen to us in an hour.