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.
A throw of the dice will never abolish chance.
The world exists to end up in a book.
Poets don't finish poems, they abandon them.
The pure work implies the disappearance of the poet as speaker, who hands over to the words.
To define is to kill. To suggest is to create.