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

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The books that help you most are those which make you think that most.
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I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
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There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.
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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.
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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.
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In the distance someone is singing.
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Only a burning patience will lead to the attainment of a splendid happiness.
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Once more I am the silent one who came out of the distance wrapped in cold rain and bells: I owe to earth’s pure death the will to sprout.
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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.
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Love is a war of lightning, and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.
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A child who does not play is not a child, but the man who doesn’t play has lost forever the child who lived in him and who he will miss terribly.
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I love you as one loves certain dark things.
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My feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping but I shall go on living.
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Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss.
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Tonight I can write the saddest lines I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
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