“Poetry is an act of peace.”

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 do not love you-except because I love you; I go from loving to not loving you, from waiting to not waiting for you my heart moves from the cold into the fire.

Absence is a house so vast that inside you will pass through its walls and hang pictures on the air.

I like on the table, when we’re speaking, the light of a bottle of intelligent wine.

Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes?

Love is a war of lightning, and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.

By night, Love, tie your heart to mine, and the two together in their sleep will defeat the darkness.

In the distance someone is singing.

Tie your heart at night to mine, love, and both will defeat the darkness like twin drums beating in the forest against the heavy wall of wet leaves.

What did the earth teach the trees? How to speak to the sky.

I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.