Always in a foreign country, the poet uses poetry as an interpreter.

One rose is enough for the dawn

We do not truly speak except at a distance. There is no word not severed.

One wound is enough to feed the open wounds of the sky.

As long as we are not chased from our words we have nothing to fear. As long as our utterances keep their sound we have a voice. As long as our words keep their sense we have a soul.

In the morning, you tear up the pages of your fever, but every word naturally leads you back to its color, its night.

Only what touches us closely preoccupies us. We prepare in solitude to face it. (The Little Book of Unsuspected Subversion)