“I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.”

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.

But I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me.

I’m not me but living matter fermenting and forming its own shapes in the fruitfulness of every day.

I believed that the way passed through Man, and that it was from there that destiny had to emerge.

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

Your wide eyes are the only light I know from extinguished constellations.

Someday, somewhere – anywhere, unfailingly, you’ll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.

Like them you are tall and taciturn, and you are sad, all at once, like a voyage.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

And when you appear all the rivers sound in my body, bells shake the sky, and a hymn fills the world.

What does autumn go on paying for with so much yellow money?

Everything is so alive, that I can be alive. Without moving I can see it all. In your life I see everything that lives.

There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.