Who hasn't sharpened the edge of his soul? When, just as our eyes are opened, we see hate, and just after learning to walk, we are tripped, and just for wanting to love, we are hated, and for no more than touching, we are hurt, which of us hasn't started to arm himself, to make himself sharp, somehow, like a knife, to pay back the hurt?

Poetry is an act of peace.

Everything is so alive, that I can be alive. Without moving I can see it all. In your life I see everything that lives.

I got lost in the night, without the light of your eyelids, and when the night surrounded me I was born again: I was the owner of my own darkness.

In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.

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

If suddenly you do not exist, If suddenly you are not living, I shall go on living. I do not dare, I do not dare to write it, if you die. I shall go on living.