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

The child who dwells inside us trusts that there are wise men somewhere who know the truth.

Grow your tree of falsehood from a small grain of truth. Do not follow those who lie in contempt of reality. Let your lie be even more logical than the truth itself, so the weary travelers may find repose.

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.

For a country without a past is nothing, a word That, hardly spoken, loses its meaning, A perishable wall destroyed by flame, An echo of animal emotions.

You see how I try To reach with words What matters most And how I fail.

Our memory is childish and it saves only what we need.