Eyesight for an eagle is what thought is to a man.
Creators of history always play with our impotence and our ignorance.
Is it possible to write a poem or are these words just screams of outlaws exiled to the desert?
A hidden spark of the dream sleeps In the forest and waits In the celestial spheres of the brain.
Every star was once darker than the night, before it awoke.
And this that you call solitude is in fact a big crowd.