I Wrote Silences; Nights; I Recorded The

O Seasons, O Castles, What Soul Is Without Flaws? All Its Lore Is Known To Me, Felicity, It Enchants Us All.

True Life Is Elsewhere

I Went Out Under The Sky, Muse! And I Was Your Vassal.

The Poet Makes Himself A Voyant Through A Long, Immense Reasoned Deranging Of All His Senses. All The Forms Of Love, Of Suffering, Of Madness; He Tries To Find Himself, He Exhausts In Himself All The Poisons, To Keep Only Their Quintessences.

Eternity Is The Sun Mixed With The Sea