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.

The partition separating life from death is so tenuous. The unbelievable fragility of our organism suggests a vision on a screen: a kind of mist condenses itself into a human shape, lasts a moment and scatters.

I am composed of contradictions, which is why poetry is a better form for me than philosophy

When I die, I will see the lining of the world. The other side, beyond bird, mountain, sunset.

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

Evil grows and bears fruit, which is understandable, because it has logic and probability on its side and also, of course, strength. The resistance of tiny kernels of good, to which no one grants the power of causing far-reaching consequences, is entirely mysterious, however. Such seeming nothingness not only lasts but contains within itself enormous energy which is revealed gradually.

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.