I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter.

Once more I am the silent one who came out of the distance wrapped in cold rain and bells: I owe to earth's pure death the will to sprout.

There is no insurmountable solitude. All paths lead to the same goal: to convey to others what we are. And we must pass through solitude and difficulty, isolation and silence in order to reach forth to the enchanted place where we can dance our clumsy dance and sing our sorrowful song - but in this dance or in this song there are fulfilled the most ancient rites of our conscience in the awareness of being human and of believing in a common destiny.

All paths lead to the same goal: to convey to others what we are.

Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south? Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

It was at that age that poetry came in search of me.

my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping but I shall go on living.