“For me writing is like breathing. I could not live without breathing and I could not live without writing.”

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

Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss.

As if you were on fire from within. The moon lives in the lining of your skin.

I love you as one loves certain dark things.

I move in the university of the waves.

We are dust and to dust return. In the end we’re neither air, nor fire, nor water, just dirt, neither more nor less, just dirt, and maybe some yellow flowers.

You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming.

So I wait for you like a lonely house till you will see me again and live in me. Till then my windows ache.

I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter.

To feel the affection that comes from those whom we do not know, widens out the boundaries of our being, and unites all living things.

Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood.

To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

So I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

You are like nobody since I love you.

In the house of poetry nothing endures that is not written with blood to be heard with blood.