We aged a hundred years, and this happened in a single hour: the short summer had already died, the body of the ploughed plains smoked.

There is a sacred, secret line in loving which attraction and even passion cannot cross.

The secret of secrets is inside me again.

I am in the middle of it: chaos and poetry; poetry and love and again, complete chaos. Pain, disorder, occasional clarity; and at the bottom of it all: only love; poetry. Sheer enchantment, fear, humiliation. It all comes with love

And it seemed to me that there were fires Flying till dawn without number And I never found out things-those Strange eyes of his-what colour? Everything trembling and singing and Were you my enemy or my friend, Winter was it or summer?

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

I am not one of those who left the land to the mercy of its enemies. Their flattery leaves me cold, my songs are not for them to praise.