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

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

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 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.