Your body is away from me, but there is a window open from my heart to yours.

There is no worse sickness for the soul, o you who are proud, than this pretense of perfection.

The morning wind spreads its fresh smell. We must get up and take that in, that wind that lets us live. Breathe before it's gone.

No more words. Hear only the voice within.

I want a trouble-maker for a lover, Blood spiller, blood drinker, a heart of flame, Who quarrels with the sky and fights with fate, Who burns like fire on the rushing sea.

Faith in the king comes easily in lovely times, but be faithful now and endure, pale lover.

The meaning of poetry has no sureness of direction; is like the sling, it is not under control.