But I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me.

Oh to follow the road that leads away from everything, without anguish, death, winter waiting along it with their eyes open through the dew.

Love is the mystery of water and a star.

I will bring you flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses. I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south? Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

What will they say about my poetry who never touched my blood?

I love all things, not because they are passionate or sweet-smelling but because, I don't know, because this ocean is yours, and mine: these buttons and wheels and little forgotten treasures, fans upon whose feathers love has scattered its blossoms, glasses, knives and scissors -- all bear the trace of someone's fingers on their handle or surface, the trace of a distant hand lost in the depths of forgetfulness.