“I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers.”

I need the sea because it teaches me.

Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Poetry arrived in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don’t know how or when.

Laughter is the language of the soul.

When I sleep every night, what am I called or not called? And when I wake, who am I if I was not I while I slept?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

We must dream our way.

Shyness is a condition foreign to the heart – a category, a dimension which leads to loneliness.

In this part of the story I am the one who dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you, because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood.

Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit.

I have never thought of my life as divided between poetry and politics.

Conspirators in pajamas who exchange deep kisses for passwords.

A book, a book full of human touches, of shirts, a book without loneliness, with men and tools, a book is victory.

From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.

My soul is an empty carousel at sunset.

I shall smile when wreaths of snow Blossom where the rose should grow.

Life and love are very precious when both are in full bloom.

In my garden, after a rainfall, you can faintly, yes, hear the breaking of new blooms.

From the ashes I rise, I am blooming into something radiant.

The desert weed lives on, but the flower of spring blooms and wilts.

Thy Return is as another Sun to Heaven; a new Rose blooming in the Garden of the Soul.

By Fate full many a heart has been undone, And many a sprightly rose made woe-begone; Plume thee not on thy lusty youth and strength: Full many a bud is blasted ere its bloom.

The rose that once has bloomed forever dies.