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.

All was taken away from you: white dresses, wings, even existence. Yet I believe you, messengers. There, where the world is turned inside out, a heavy fabric embroidered with stars and beasts, you stroll, inspecting the trustworthy seams.

Be young forever, seasons of the earth.

We have become indifferent to content, and react, not even to form, but to technique, to technical efficiency itself.

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

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

It is impossible to communicate to people who have not experienced it the undefinable menace of total rationalism.