Poetry Is The Language Of A State

The World Exists To End Up In A Book.

Paintings Are Painted With Paint, Not With Ideas.

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

Poets Don't Finish Poems, They Abandon Them.

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.