You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

so I wait for you like a lonely house till you will see me again and live in me. Till then my windows ache.

I stood on the balcony dark with mourning... hoping the earth would spread its wings in my uninhabited love.

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

It was at that age that poetry came in search of me.

I have never thought of my life as divided between poetry and politics.

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