I have a piece of great and sad news to tell you: I am dead.
Beauty makes one lose one's head. Poetry is born of this decapitation
It is not inspiration; it is expiration.
I'm not willing just to be tolerated. That wounds my love of love and of liberty.
Every poem is a coat of arms. It must be deciphered. How much blood, how many tears in exchange for these axes, these muzzles, these unicorns, these torches, these towers, these martlets, these seedlings of stars and these fields of blue!
Since these mysteries exceed my grasp, I shall pretend to have organized them.