Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet Yet is not a prophet, for he's much too busy, Repeats while he binds his tomatoes: No other end of the world will there be, No other end of the world will there be.

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

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

Learning To believe you are magnificent. And gradually to discover that you are not magnificent. Enough labor for one human life.

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.

I was left behind with the immensity of existing things. A sponge, suffering because it cannot saturate itself; a river, suffering because reflections of clouds and trees are not clouds and trees.

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