The child who dwells inside us trusts that there are wise men somewhere who know the truth.
The purpose of poetry is to remind us how difficult it is to remain just one person, for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors, and invisible guests come in and out at will.
When I curse Fate, it's not me, but the earth in me.
Poetry is news brought to the mountains by a unicorn and an echo.
Men will clutch at illusions when they have nothing else to hold to.
What is this enigmatic impulse that does not allow one to settle down in the achieved, the finished? I think it is a quest for reality.