The days aren't discarded or collected, they are bees that burned with sweetness or maddened the sting: the struggle continues, the journeys go and come between honey and pain. No, the net of years doesn't unweave: there is no net. They don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river. Sleep doesn't divide life into halves, or action, or silence, or honor: life is like a stone, a single motion, a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves, an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal that climbs or descends burning in your bones.

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

I believed that the way passed through Man, and that it was from there that destiny had to emerge.

I want to do with you what the spring does with the cherry trees.

Every day you play with the light of the universe.

And here am I, budding among the ruins with only sorrow to bite on, as if weeping were a seed and I the earth's only furrow.

Look around—there's only one thing of danger for you here—poetry.