No one's serious at seventeen.

All day long he was docile, intelligent, good, Though sometimes changing to a darker mood. He seemed hypocritical, could tell better lies, in the dark he saw dots of colors behind closed eyes, clenched fists, put his tongue out at his elder brother.

True alchemy lies in this formula: ‘Your memory and your senses are but the nourishment of your creative impulse’.

O seasons, O castles, What soul is without flaws? All its lore is known to me, Felicity, it enchants us all.

You will always be a hyena.

The poet makes himself a voyant through a long, immense reasoned deranging of all his senses. All the forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he tries to find himself, he exhausts in himself all the poisons, to keep only their quintessences.

A thousand Dreams within me softly burn: From time to time my heart is like some oak Whose blood runs golden where a branch is torn.