My method is simple: not to bother about poetry. It must come of its own accord. Merely whispering its name drives it away.

I am burning myself up and will always do so.

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!

Watch yourself all your life in a mirror and you'll see Death at work like bees in a glass hive.

True realism consists in revealing the surprising things which habit keeps covered and prevents us from seeing.

Picasso said that everything is a miracle, that it's a miracle that we don't dissolve in our baths.

What uniform can I wear to hide my heavy heart? It is too heavy. It will always show.