You who think of us: they lived only in delusion... Know that we the People of the Book, will never die!

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.

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

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

Grow your tree of falsehood from a small grain of truth.

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.

Consciousness even in my sleep changes primary colors. The features of my face melt like a wax doll in the fire. And who can consent to see in the mirror the mere face of man?