Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.
In the house of poetry nothing endures that is not written with blood to be heard with blood.
Love is a clash of lightnings
I am everybody and every time, I always call myself by your name.
Peace goes into the making of a poem as flour goes into the making of bread.