A Glass Pitcher, A Wicker Basket, A

A Civilization That Denies Death Ends By Denying Life.

To Love Is To Battle, To Open Doors, To Cease To Be A Ghost With A Number Forever In Chains, Forever Condemned By A Faceless Master; The World Changes If Two Look At Each Other And See.

We Pursue Modernity In Her Incessant Metamorphoses Yet We Never Manage To Trap Her. She Always Escapes: Each Encounter Ends In Flight. We Embrace Her And She Disappears Immediately: It Was Just A Little Air. It Is The Instant, That Bird That Is Everywhere And Nowhere. We Want To Trap It Alive But It Flaps Its Wings And Vanishes In The Form Of A Handful Of Syllables. We Are Left Empty-handed. Then The Doors Of Perception Open Slightly And The Other Time Appears, The Real One We Were Searching For Without Knowing It: The Present, The Presence.

The Purpose Of Poetry Is To Restore To Mankind The Possibility To Wonder.

A Flower Without A Stem, Is Beauty Waiting To Die. A Heart Without Love, Is A Tear Waiting To Cry.