Today not even a universal fire could make the torrential poetic production of our time disappear. But it is exactly a question of production, that is, of hand-made products which are subject to the laws of taste and fashion.

I have always knocked at the door of that wonderful and terrible enigma which is life.

Many of today's verses are prose and bad prose.

However, poetry does not live solely in books or in school anthologies.

It has often been observed that the repercussion of poetic language on prose language can be considered a decisive cut of a whip.

Happiness, for you we walk on a knife edge. To the eyes you are a flickering light, to the feet, thin ice that cracks; and so may no one touch you who loves you.

Strangely, Dante's Divine Comedy did not produce a prose of that creative height or it did so after centuries.