When I Rest My Feet My Mind

The Farther Reason Looks The Greater Is The Haze In Which It Loses Itself.

Poetry Is The Mother-tongue Of The Human Race.

The Weakness Of Ourselves And Of Our Reason Makes Us See Flaws In Beauties By Making Us Consider Everything Piece By Piece.

Everything The Human Being Heard From The Beginning, Saw With Its Eyes, Looked Upon And Touched With Its Hands Was A Living Word; For God Was The Word.

Everything Is Vain And Tortures The Spirit Instead Of Calming And Satisfying It.