Every Soul Is A Melody Which Needs

Poetry Is The Language Of A State Of Crisis.

O Naked Flower Of My Lips, You Lie! I Await A Thing Unknown Or Perhaps, Unaware Of The Mystery And Your Cries You Give, O Lips, The Supreme Tortured Moans Of A Childhood Groping Among Its Reveries To Sort Out Finally Its Cold Precious Stones.

The Flesh Is Sad, Alas, And I Have Read All The Books.

Paint, Not The Thing But The Effect Which It Produces.

Everything That Is Sacred And That Wishes To Remain So Must Envelop Itself In Mystery.