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

The poem is in my hands, and can run stories through her hands.

When a writer declares that his first book is his best, that is bad. I progress successively from book to book.

My love, I fear the silence of your hands.

Poetry is perhaps what teaches us to nurture the charming illusion: how to be reborn out of ourselves over and over again, and use words to construct a better world, a fictitious world that enables us to sign a pact for a permanent and comprehensive peace ... with life.

Standing here, staying here, permanent here, eternal here, and we have one goal, one, one: to be.

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