Without doubt I praise the wild excellence.

In the house of poetry nothing endures that is not written with blood to be heard with blood.

I do not love you-except because I love you; I go from loving to not loving you, from waiting to not waiting for you my heart moves from the cold into the fire.

And what has become of it, where is that onetime love? Now it is the grave of a bird, a drop of black quartz, a chunk of wood eroded by the rain.

To feel the affection that comes from those whom we do not know ... widens out the boundaries of our being, and unites all living things.

And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running. So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes, and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans.