The burial of feelings has begun.

If every head of state and every government official spent an hour a day reading poetry we'd live in a much more humane and decent world.

We’re only here for a short while. And I think it’s such a lucky accident, having been born, that we’re almost obliged to pay attention.

Nothing is the destiny of everyone, it is our commonness made dumb.

Usually a life turned into a poem is misrepresented.

She stood beside me for years, or was it a moment? I cannot remember. Maybe I loved her, maybe I didn't. There was a house, and then no house. There were trees, but none remain. When no one remembers, what is there? You, whose moments are gone, who drift like smoke in the afterlife, tell me something, tell me anything.

It hardly seems worthwhile to point out the shortsightedness of those practitioners who would have us believe that the form of the poem is merely its shape.