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

What is not grasped has all the chances to become real.

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

One rose is enough for the dawn

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

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

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