How much does a man live, after all?/ Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries?/ How long does a man spend dying?/ What does it mean to say 'for ever'?

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming.

Conspirators in pajamas who exchange deep kisses for passwords.

Political poetry is more profoundly emotional than any other-at least as much as love poetry-and cannot be forced because then it becomes vulgar and unacceptable. It is necessary first to pan though all other poetry in order to become a political poet.

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

Our love was born outside the walls, in the wind, in the night, in the earth, and that's why the clay and the flower, the mud and the roots know your name.