A man should not love the moon. An ax should not lose weight in his hand. His garden should smell of rotting apples, And grow a fair amount of nettles.

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

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.

And now I am ready to keep running When the sun rises beyond the borderlands of death. I already see mountain ridges in the heavenly forest Where, beyond every essence, a new essence awaits.

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

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

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