When we learn to speak, we learn to translate.

What characterizes a poem is its necessary dependence on words as much as its struggle to transcend them.

Art is what remains of religion: the dance above the yawning abyss.

Enormous and solid but swaying, beaten by the wind but chained, murmur of a million leaves against my window. Riot of trees, surge of dark green sounds. The grove, suddenly still, is a web of fronds and branches.

I thought that the world was a vast system of signs, a conversation between giant beings. My actions, the cricket's saw, the star's blink, were nothing but pauses and syllables, scattered phrases from that dialogue. What word could it be, of which I was only a syllable? Who speaks the word? To whom is it spoken?

Whatever is not stone is light

Poet: gardener of epitaphs.