Poetry is a tracing of the trajectories of a finite sound to the infinite points of its echoes.

Poetry is the establishment of a metaphorical link between white butterfly-wings and the scraps of torn-up love-letters.

Come on, you Do you want to live forever?

Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work.

For we know when a nation goes down and never comes back, when a society or a civilization perishes, one condition may always be found. They forgot where they came from. They lost sight of what brought them along.

When I was writing pretty poor poetry, this girl with midnight black hair told me to go on.

Poetry is a fossil rock-print of a fin and a wing, with an illegible oath between.