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I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

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And when you appear all the rivers sound in my body, bells shake the sky, and a hymn fills the world.
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While I’m writing, I’m far away; and when I come back, I’ve gone.
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Love, how many roads to obtain a kiss.
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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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Peace goes into the making of a poem as flour goes into the making of bread.
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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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I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.
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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?
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Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
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So I wait for you like a lonely house till you will see me again and live in me. Till then my windows ache.
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Only a burning patience will lead to the attainment of a splendid happiness.
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But from each crime are born bullets that will one day seek out in you where the heart lies.
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Let us forget with generosity those who cannot love us.
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My soul is an empty carousel at sunset.
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Shyness is a condition foreign to the heart – a category, a dimension which leads to loneliness.
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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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