On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net.

I think that I am here, on this earth, to present a report on it, but to whom I don't know. As if I were sent so that whatever takes place has meaning because it changes into memory.

Not that I want to be a god or a hero. Just to change into a tree, grow for ages, not hurt anyone.

I imagine the earth when I am no more: Women's dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley. Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born, Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.

Poetry is a dividend from what you know and what you are.

The death of a man is like the fall of a mighty nation That had valiant armies, captains, and prophets, And wealthy ports and ships all over the seas.

In a room where people unanimously maintain a conspiracy of silence, one word of truth sounds like a pistol shot.