And soon all of us will sleep under the earth, we who never let each other sleep above it.
How quiet the writing, how noisy the printing.
The one that burned the hottest is the first to die.
Wings are freedom only when they are wide open in flight. On one's back they are a heavy weight.
My verses are my diary. My poetry is a poetry of proper names.
What shall I do, singer and first-born, in a world where the deepest black is grey, and inspiration is kept in a thermos? with all this immensity in a measured world?