In the secret of night, my prayer climbs like the liana, My prayer is, and I am not. It grows, and I perish. I have only my hard breath, my reason and my madness. I cling to the vine of my prayer. I tend it at the root of the stalk of night.

There is the joy of being healthy and fair, but there is overall the beauty, the immense joy of being useful.

The poet is an untier of knots, and love without words is a knot, and it drowns.

What the soul is to the body, so is the artist to his people.

Love that stammers, that stutters, is apt to be the love that loves best.

For me, religiosity is ... the constant remembrance of the presence of the soul.

All night I have suffered; all night my flesh has trembled to bring forth its gift. The sweat of death is on my forehead; but it is not death, it is life!