And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

Hands make the world each day.

I want to do with you what the spring does with the cherry trees.

Conspirators in pajamas who exchange deep kisses for passwords.

From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.

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

If you no longer live, if you my beloved, my love, if you have died, all the leaves will fall in my breast, it will rain in my soul night and day, the snow will burn my heart, I shall walk with frost and fire and death and snow, my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping, but I shall live