And our problems will crumble apart, the soul / blow through like a wind, and here where we live will all be clean again, with fresh bread on the table.

My soul is an empty carousel at sunset.

The best poet is the man who delivers our daily bread: the local baker.

And what importance do I have in the courtroom of oblivion?

Give me silence, water, hope Give me struggle, iron, volcanoes.

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

I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter.