The poetic act consists of suddenly seeing that an idea splits up into a number of equal motifs and of grouping them; they rhyme.

The world exists to end up in a book.

Everything in the world exists in order to end up as a book.

Every soul is a melody which needs renewing.

A soul trembling to sit by a hearth so bright, To exist again, it’s enough if I borrow from Your lips the breath of my name you murmur all night.

The poetic act consists of suddenly seeing that an idea splits up into a number of equal motifs and of grouping them; they rhyme.

Everything that is sacred and that wishes to remain so must envelop itself in mystery.