And when you appear all the rivers sound in my body, bells shake the sky, and a hymn fills the world.

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.

Peace goes into the making of a poem as flour goes into the making of bread.

Why wasn't Christopher Columbus able to discover Spain?

Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

And what has become of it, where is that onetime love? Now it is the grave of a bird, a drop of black quartz, a chunk of wood eroded by the rain.

To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.