Once more I am the silent one who came out of the distance wrapped in cold rain and bells: I owe to earth's pure death the will to sprout.

From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.

Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes?

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

There is no insurmountable solitude. All paths lead to the same goal: to convey to others what we are. And we must pass through solitude and difficulty, isolation and silence in order to reach forth to the enchanted place where we can dance our clumsy dance and sing our sorrowful song - but in this dance or in this song there are fulfilled the most ancient rites of our conscience in the awareness of being human and of believing in a common destiny.

Absence is a house so vast that inside you will pass through its walls and hang pictures on the air.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines...Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her.