I was left behind with the immensity of existing things. A sponge, suffering because it cannot saturate itself; a river, suffering because reflections of clouds and trees are not clouds and trees.

What is poetry which does not save nations or people?

Two attributes of a poet, avidity of the eye and the desire to describe that which he sees.

It's true that what is morbid is highly valued today, and so you may think that I am only joking or that I've devised just one more means of praising Art with the help of irony.

Poetry is news brought to the mountains by a unicorn and an echo.

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.

A weak human mercy walks in the corridors of hospitals and is like a half-thawed winter.