We do not truly speak except at a distance. There is no word not severed.
Always in a foreign country, the poet uses poetry as an interpreter.
One rose is enough for the dawn
What is not grasped has all the chances to become real.
Wound me . . . I can only feed on my humiliated blood.
In the morning, you tear up the pages of your fever, but every word naturally leads you back to its color, its night.