I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.

I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.

I don't know who it is who lives or dies, who rests or wakes, but it is your heart that distributes all the graces of the daybreak in my breast.

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

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

When everything seems to be set to show me off as intelligent, the fool I always keep hidden takes over all that I say.

Shyness is a condition foreign to the heart - a category, a dimension which leads to loneliness.