We came by night to the Fortunate Isles, And lay like fish Under the net of our kisses.

I've come within range of hate. Terrifying, its tremors, its dizzying obsessions. Hate's like a swordfish invisible in the water, knifing suddenly into sight with blood on its blade- clear water misleads you.

So the freshness lives on in a lemon, in the sweet-smelling house of the rind, the proportions, arcane and acerb.

I want to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees.

In what language does rain fall over tormented cities?

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.

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