If anything needs love it is reality, for it is reality that lacks it the most - I doubt that it was ever loved.

Love grows by not giving to us. And if our passion for poetry lives on and persists, it is because poetry offers us only its bits of lint.

You are walking in a desert.You hear a bird singing.As absurd as it may seem for a bird to be pending in the desert,you are obligated to make it a tree.That's poem

If anything needs love it is reality, for it is reality that lacks it the most - I doubt that it was ever loved.

All that we are and all that we've ever felt, words have felt it first.

Poetry contains love and holds it in high esteem, even though love always humiliates it by using it merely as a soothing after-shave lotion.

I write very rarely. Only, in fact, when the sheet of paper suffers an existential crisis and threatens, if I don't surrender to it, to bury me alive under its whiteness.