“What does the world get from two people/who exist in a world of their own?”

I started earning a living as a poet rather early on.

All imperfection is easier to tolerate if served up in small doses.

Poetic talent doesn’t operate in a vacuum. There is a spirit of Polish poetry.

All is mine but nothing owned, nothing owned for memory, and mine only while I look.

Keep up the good work, if only for a while, if only for the twinkling of a tiny galaxy.

This terrifying world is not devoid of charms, of the mornings that make waking up worthwhile.

It’s a well-known fact: in order to follow doctor’s orders, you have to be healthy as a horse.

Every beginning is only a sequel, after all, and the book of events is always open halfway through.

I don’t know the role I’m playing. I only know it’s mine, non-convertible.

No one feels good at four in the morning. If ants feel good at four in the morning —three cheers for the ants.

Out of every hundred people, those who always know better: fifty-two.

Somewhere out there the world must have an end.

Poorly prepared for the dignity of life, I barely keep up with the pace of the action imposed. Reality demands.

When it comes, you’ll be dreaming that you don’t need to breathe; that breathless silence is the music of the dark and it’s part of the rhythm to vanish like a spark.

I cannot speak for more than an hour exclusively about poetry. At that point, life itself takes over again.

Carry on, then, if only for the moment that it takes a tiny galaxy to blink!