You Don't Make A Poem With Ideas,

A Soul Trembling To Sit By A Hearth So Bright, To Exist Again, It’s Enough If I Borrow From Your Lips The Breath Of My Name You Murmur All Night.

Everything That Is Sacred And That Wishes To Remain So Must Envelop Itself In Mystery.

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.

It Is The Job Of Poetry To Clean Up Our Word-clogged Reality By Creating Silences Around Things.

To Define Is To Kill. To Suggest Is To Create.