You can crush the flowers, but you can't stop the spring.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything.
Only do not forget, if I wake up crying it's only because in my dream I'm a lost child hunting through the leaves of the night for your hands.
I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter.
The best poet is the man who delivers our daily bread: the local baker.
But when I call for a hero, out comes my lazy old self; so I never know who I am, nor how many I am or will be. I'd love to be able to touch a bell and summon the real me, because if I really need myself, I mustn't disappear.