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.

It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things.

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

All thoughts emit a throw of dice

It is in front of the the paper that the artist creates himself.

The world exists to end up in a book.

A throw of the dice will never abolish chance.