If the Olive Trees knew the hands that planted them, Their Oil would become Tears.

We are captives of what we love, what we desire, and what we are.

I am from there. I am from here. I am not there and I am not here. I have two names, which meet and part, and I have two languages. I forget which of them I dream in.

I love women whose hidden desires make horses put an end to their lives at the threshold

I don't decide to represent anything except myself. But that self is full of collective memory.

I thought poetry could change everything, could change history and could humanize, and I think that the illusion is very necessary to push poets to be involved and to believe, but now I think that poetry changes only the poet.

She does not love you. Your metaphors thrill her you are her poet. But that's all there's to it.