Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south? Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

Give me, for my life, all lives, give me all the pain of everyone, I'm going to turn it into hope. Give me all the joys, even the most secret, because otherwise how will these things be known? I have to tell them, give me the labors of everyday, for that's what I sing.

In this part of the story I am the one who dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you, because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood.

Peace goes into the making of a poem as flour goes into the making of bread.

As slippery as smooth grapes, words exploding in the light like dormant seeds waiting in the vaults of vocabulary, alive again, and giving life: once again the heart distills them.

For me writing is like breathing. I could not live without breathing and I could not live without writing.

All paths lead to the same goal: to convey to others what we are.