What will they say about my poetry who never touched my blood?

I am not jealous of what came before me. Come with a man on your shoulders, come with a hundred men in your hair, come with a thousand men between your breasts and your feet, come like a river full of drowned men which flows down to the wild sea, to the eternal surf, to Time! Bring them all to where I am waiting for you; we shall always be alone, we shall always be you and I alone on earth, to start our life!

Love, how many roads to obtain a kiss.

I like on the table, when we're speaking, the light of a bottle of intelligent wine.

And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy.

By night, Love, tie your heart to mine, and the two together in their sleep will defeat the darkness

My duty moves along with my song: I am I am not: that is my destiny. I exist not if I do not attend to the pain of those who suffer: they are my pains. For I cannot be without existing for all, for all who are silent and oppressed, I come from the people and I sing for them: my poetry is song and punnishment.