I don't believe in angels but the moon is now dead for me. The last glass of wine is gone before the thirst I'm suffering from. The blue grass lost its way running away from your sails.

I believe the world is beautiful, and poetry, like bread, is for everyone.

The rose blinds the sharpshooting champions.

I don't believe in angels but the moon is now dead for me. The last glass of wine is gone before the thirst I'm suffering from. The blue grass lost its way running away from your sails.

My veins do not end in me but in the unanimous blood of those who struggle for life, love, things, landscape and bread, the poetry of all.

You can judge the moral bearing of a political system, a political institution, a political man by the degree of danger they attach to the fact of being observed through the eyes of a satiric poet.