I am no longer in love with her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
It was at that age that poetry came in search of me.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I don’t know any other way of loving.
Love! Love until the night collapses!
I got lost in the night, without the light of your eyelids, and when the night surrounded me I was born again: I was the owner of my own darkness.
In what language does rain fall over tormented cities?
I hunger for your sleek laugh and your hands the color of a furious harvest. I want to eat the sunbeams flaring in your beauty.
It was my destiny to love and say goodbye.
While I’m writing, I’m far away; and when I come back, I’ve gone.
The books that help you most are those which make you think the most. The hardest way of learning is that of easy reading; but a great book that comes from a great thinker is a ship of thought, deep freighted with truth and beauty.
Love is the mystery of water and a star.
If suddenly you do not exist, If suddenly you are not living, I shall go on living. I do not dare, I do not dare to write it, if you die. I shall go on living.
And that’s why I have to go back to so many places there to find myself and constantly examine myself with no witness but the moon and then whistle with joy, ambling over rocks and clods of earth, with no task but to live, with no family but the road.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south? Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
I should like to sleep like a cat, with all the fur of time, with a tongue rough as flint, with the dry sex of fire; and after speaking to no one, stretch myself over the world, over roofs and landscapes, with a passionate desire to hunt the rats in my dreams.
Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.
Bitter love, a violet with it’s crown of thorns in a thicet of spiky passions, spear of sorrow, corolla of rage: how did you come to conquer my soul? What brought you?
I want to see thirst In the syllables, Tough fire In the sound; Feel through the dark For the scream.