The Truth Is Dark Under Your Eyelids.

Only Poetry Can Measure The Distance Between Ourselves And The Other.

I Was Already Dozing Off In The Shade, Dreaming That The Rustling Trees Were My Many Selves Explaining Themselves All At The Same Time So That I Could Not Make Out A Single Word. My Life Was A Beautiful Mystery On The Verge Of Understanding, Always On The Verge! Think Of It!

The Secret Wish Of Poetry Is To Stop Time.

The Poem I Want To Write Is Impossible. A Stone That Floats.

Only Brooms Know The Devil Still Exists, That The Snow Grows Whiter After A Crow Has Flown Over It