Will our life not be a tunnel between two vague clarities? Or will it not be a clarity between two dark triangles?

I am made of earth, and my song made of words.

We must dream our way.

What does autumn go on paying for with so much yellow money?

We the mortals touch the metals, the wind, the ocean shores, the stones, knowing they will go on, inert or burning, and I was discovering, naming all the these things: it was my destiny to love and say goodbye.

There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.

The hardest way of learning is that of easy reading.