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Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet Yet is not a prophet, for he’s much too busy, Repeats while he binds his tomatoes: No other end of the world will there be, No other end of the world will there be.

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Forget the suffering You caused others. Forget the suffering Others caused you. The waters run and run, Springs sparkle and are done, You walk the earth you are forgetting.
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What is poetry which does not save nations or people?
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What is this enigmatic impulse that does not allow one to settle down in the achieved, the finished? I think it is a quest for reality.
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It’s true that what is morbid is highly valued today, and so you may think that I am only joking or that I’ve devised just one more means of praising Art with the help of irony.
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The death of a man is like the fall of a mighty nation That had valiant armies, captains, and prophets, And wealthy ports and ships all over the seas.
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Grow your tree of falsehood from a small grain of truth.
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Language is the only homeland.
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A weak human mercy walks in the corridors of hospitals and is like a half-thawed winter.
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All was taken away from you: white dresses, wings, even existence.
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Consciousness even in my sleep changes primary colors. The features of my face melt like a wax doll in the fire. And who can consent to see in the mirror the mere face of man?
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At every sunrise I renounce the doubts of night and greet the new day of a most precious delusion.
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Do not feel safe. The poet remembers. You can kill one, but another is born. The words are written down, the deed, the date.
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If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?
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Kind Man Myself

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