How quiet the writing, how noisy the printing.

The one that burned the hottest is the first to die.

I opened my veins. Unstoppably life spurts out with no remedy. Now I set out bowls and plates. Every bowl will be shallow. Every plate will be small. And overflowing their rims, into the black earth, to nourish the rushes unstoppably without cure, gushes poetry.

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?

Women talk about love and silent about lovers, men - on the contrary: Speaking of mistresses, but are silent about love.