The dead drug leaves a ghost behind. At certain hours it haunts the house.
Expect neither reward nor beatitude. Return noble waves for ignoble.
Statues to great men are made of the stones thrown at them in their lifetime.
Such is the role of poetry. It unveils, in the strict sense of the word. It lays bare, under a light which shakes off torpor, the surprising things which surround us and which our senses record mechanically.
May the devil himself splatter you with dung.
Poets don't draw. They unravel their handwriting and then tie it up again, but differently.