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?

One should write only those books from whose absence one suffers. In short: the ones you want on your own desk.

After a sleepless night the body gets weaker, It becomes dear and not yours - and nobody's. Just like a seraph you smile to people And arrows moan in the slow arteries. After a sleepless night the arms get weaker And deeply equal to you are the friend and foe. Smells like Florence in the frost, and in each Sudden sound is the whole rainbow. Tenderly light the lips, and the shadow's golden Near the sunken eyes. Here the night has sparked This brilliant likeness - and from the dark night Only just one thing - the eyes - are growing dark.

Don't you know no one can escape the power of creatures reaching out with breath alone?

Meanings are translatable. Words are untranslatable… More briefly – a word is translatable, its sound is not.

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

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