My verses are my diary. My poetry is a poetry of proper names.

Who sleeps at night? No one is sleeping.
 In the cradle a child is screaming.
 An old man sits over his death, and anyone
 young enough talks to his love, breathes 
into her lips, looks into her eyes.

Wings are freedom only when they are wide open in flight. On one's back they are a heavy weight.

And soon all of us will sleep under the earth, we who never let each other sleep above it.

What is the main thing in love? to know and to hide. To know about the one you love and to hide that you love. At times the hiding (shame) overpowers the knowing (passion). The passion for the hidden - the passion for the revealed.

My desk, most loyal friend thank you. You've been with me on every road I've taken. My scar and my protection.

My favorite mode of communication is in the world beyond: a dream, to see in a dream. My second favorite is correspondence.