On our earth, before writing was invented, before the printing press was invented, poetry flourished. That is why we know that poetry is like bread; it should be shared by all, by scholars and by peasants, by all our vast, incredible, extraordinary family of humanity.

If you no longer live, if you my beloved, my love, if you have died, all the leaves will fall in my breast, it will rain in my soul night and day, the snow will burn my heart, I shall walk with frost and fire and death and snow, my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping, but I shall live

I stood on the balcony dark with mourning... hoping the earth would spread its wings in my uninhabited love.

A book, a book full of human touches, of shirts, a book without loneliness, with men and tools, a book is victory.

Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.

Your house sounds like a train at midday, the wasps buzz, the saucepans sing, the waterfall enumerates the deeds of the dew . . .

White bee, even when you are gone you buzz in my soul You live again in time, slender and silent.