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

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.

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

A choir of angels glorified the hour, the vault of heaven was dissolved in fire. "Father, why hast Thou forsaken me? Mother, I beg you, do not weep for me.

Your voice is wild and simple. You are untranslatable Into any one tongue.

I have long had this premonition of a bright day and a deserted house

The triumphs of a mysterious non-meeting are desolate ones; unspoken phrases, silent words.