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

You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming.

So I wait for you like a lonely house till you will see me again and live in me. Till then my windows ache.

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

To feel the affection that comes from those whom we do not know, widens out the boundaries of our being, and unites all living things.

Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood.

To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.

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 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.