Someone will ask later, sometimes searching for a name, his own or someone's else's why I neglected his sadness or his love... But I didn't have enough time or ink for everyone. Or maybe it was the strain of the city, of time the cold heart of the clocks.

To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.

Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance climbed up through my conscious mind as if suddenly the roots I had left behind cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood - and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything.

The typewriter separated me from a deeper intimacy with poetry, and my hand brought me closer to that intimacy again.

For me writing is like breathing. I could not live without breathing and I could not live without writing.

You are like night, calmed, constellated. Your silence is star-like, as distant, as true.