I Got Lost In The Night, Without

In The House Of Poetry Nothing Endures That Is Not Written With Blood To Be Heard With Blood.

I Believed That The Way Passed Through Man, And That It Was From There That Destiny Had To Emerge.

A Book, A Book Full Of Human Touches, Of Shirts, A Book Without Loneliness, With Men And Tools, A Book Is Victory.

Over Your Breasts Of Motionless Current, Over Your Legs Of Firmness And Water, Over The Permanence And The Pride Of Your Naked Hair I Want To Be, My Love, Now That The Tears Are Thrown Into The Raucous Baskets Where They Accumulate, I Want To Be, My Love, Alone With A Syllable Of Mangled Silver, Alone With A Tip Of Your Breast Of Snow.

For Me Writing Is Like Breathing. I Could Not Live Without Breathing And I Could Not Live Without Writing.