I don't know who it is who lives or dies, who rests or wakes, but it is your heart that distributes all the graces of the daybreak in my breast.

Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood.

I do not love you-except because I love you; I go from loving to not loving you, from waiting to not waiting for you my heart moves from the cold into the fire.

There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.

In you is the illusion of each day. You arrive like the dew to the cupped flowers. You undermine the horizon with your absence. Eternally in flight like the wave.

In the distance someone is singing.

In one kiss, you'll know all I haven't said.