Oh to follow the road that leads away from everything, without anguish, death, winter waiting along it with their eyes open through the dew.

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

I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Absence is a house so vast that inside you will pass through its walls and hang pictures on the air.

We the mortals touch the metals, the wind, the ocean shores, the stones, knowing they will go on, inert or burning, and I was discovering, naming all the these things: it was my destiny to love and say goodbye.

When everything seems to be set to show me off as intelligent, the fool I always keep hidden takes over all that I say.