She did not speak for speech was unknown to her.

Will our life not be a tunnel between two vague clarities? Or will it not be a clarity between two dark triangles?

Your wide eyes are the only light I know from extinguished constellations.

As slippery as smooth grapes, words exploding in the light like dormant seeds waiting in the vaults of vocabulary, alive again, and giving life: once again the heart distills them.

Who do I belong to? How come I mortgaged my being till I don't belong to myself? How come I sold my blood? And who now owns my indecisions, my hands, my private pain, my pride?

It was at that age that poetry came in search of me.

The bare earth, plantless, waterless, is an immense puzzle. In the forests or beside rivers everything speaks to humans. The desert does not speak. I could not comprehend its tongue; its silence...