I have defined poetry as a 'passionate pursuit of the Real.

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?

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

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.

What is poetry which does not save nations or people?

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

What has no shadow has no strength to live.