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The birds of night peck at the first stars that flash like my soul when I love you.

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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.
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Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss.
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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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From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.
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It was my destiny to love and say goodbye.
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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 have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.
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Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes?
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Lake Tears Wait
Love is a war of lightning, and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.
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I like on the table, when we’re speaking, the light of a bottle of intelligent wine.
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The hardest way of learning is that of easy reading; but a great book that comes from a great thinker is a ship of thought, deep freighted with truth and beauty.
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Take bread away from me, if you wish, take air away, but do not take from me your laughter.
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What does autumn go on paying for with so much yellow money?
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For me writing is like breathing. I could not live without breathing and I could not live without writing.
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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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Away Come Back Far Writing

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