I don't want to go on being a root in the dark, vacillating, stretched out, shivering with sleep, downward, in the soaked guts of the earth, absorbing and thinking, eating each day.

Love is brief: forgetting lasts so long.

With which stars do they go on speaking,the rivers that never reach the sea?

The Truth is in the prolouge. Death to the romantic fool., the expert in solitary confinement.

And I, infinitesima­l being, drunk with the great starry void, likeness, image of mystery, I felt myself a pure part of the abyss, I wheeled with the stars, my heart broke loose on the wind.

In you is the illusion of each day. You arrive like the dew to the cupped flowers. You undermine the horizon with your absence. Eternally in flight like the wave.

Poetry is an act of peace.