I love women whose hidden desires make horses put an end to their lives at the threshold
... For me it is essential, essential for the poet to have a new toast, new songs.
History laughs at both the victim and the aggressor.
My love, I fear the silence of your hands.
If the Olive Trees knew the hands that planted them, Their Oil would become Tears.
I have learned and dismantled all the words in order to draw from them a single word: Home.