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

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

Theatre is poetry that rises from the book and becomes human enough to talk and shout, weep and despair

What shall I say about poetry? What shall I say about those clouds, or about the sky? Look; look at them; look at it! And nothing more. Don't you understand anything about poetry? Leave that to the critics and the professors. For neither you, nor I, nor any poet knows what poetry is.

My head is full of fire and grief and my tongue runs wild, pierced with shards of glass.

If blue is dream what then innocence? What awaits the heart if Love bears no arrows?

At five in the afternoon. It was exactly five in the afternoon. A boy brought the white sheet at five in the afternoon. A frail of lime ready prepared at five in the afternoon. The rest was death, and death alone