While the poet wrestles with the horses on his brain and the sculptor wounds his eyes on the hard spark of alabaster, the dancer battles the air around her, air that threatens at any moment to destroy her harmony or to open huge open empty spaces where her rhythm will be annihilated.

There is nothing more poetic and terrible than the skyscrapers' battle with the heavens that cover them.

The night below. We two. Crystal of pain. You wept over great distances. My ache was a clutch of agonies over your sickly heart of sand.

The dancer's trembling heart must bring everything into harmony, from the tips of her shoes to the flutter of her eyelashes, from the ruffles of her dress to the incessant play of her fingers.

Green how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches.

The day hunger disappears, the world will see the greatest spiritual explosion humanity has ever seen.

As I have not worried to be born, I do not worry to die.