We bear the sole, relentless tenderness.
Poetry is an act of peace.
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.
Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit.
I am made of earth, and my song made of words.
Your house sounds like a train at midday, the wasps buzz, the saucepans sing, the waterfall enumerates the deeds of the dew . . .