Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.

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

If you should ask me where I've been all this time I have to say "Things happen." I have to dwell on stones darkening the earth, on the river ruined in its own duration: I know nothing save things the birds have lost, the sea I left behind, or my sister crying. Why this abundance of places? Why does day lock with day? Why the dark night swilling round in our mouths? And why the dead?

In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.

Love is the mystery of water and a star.

I don't know who it is who lives or dies, who rests or wakes, but it is your heart that distributes all the graces of the daybreak in my breast.

In love, you have loosened yourself like seawater