A Throw Of The Dice Will Never

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.

There Is Only Beauty / And It Has Only One Perfect Expression / Poetry. All The Rest Is A Lie /except For Those Who Live By The Body, Love, And, That Love Of The Mind, Friendship. For Me, Poetry Takes The Place Of Love, Because It Is Enamored Of Itself, And Because Its Sensual Delight Falls Back Deliciously In My Soul.

The Pure Work Implies The Disappearance Of The Poet As Speaker, Who Hands Over To The Words.

You Don't Make A Poem With Ideas, But With Words.

Dreams Have As Much Influences As Actions.