He who has nothing—it has been said many times—has nothing to lose but his chains.

Sometimes a piece of sun burned like a coin in my hand.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

And that's why i have to go back to so many places there to find myself and constantly examine myself with no witness but the moon and then whistle with joy, ambling over rocks and clods of earth, with no task but to live, with no family but the road.

White bee, even when you are gone you buzz in my soul You live again in time, slender and silent.

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 no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long.