And here am I, budding among the ruins with only sorrow to bite on, as if weeping were a seed and I the earth's only furrow.

I like on the table, when we're speaking, the light of a bottle of intelligent wine.

In the house of poetry nothing endures that is not written with blood to be heard with blood.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.

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.

The Truth is in the prolouge. Death to the romantic fool., the expert in solitary confinement.

Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots?