If Each Of My Words Were A

For Every Language That Becomes Extinct, An Image Of Man Disappears.

What Sets Worlds In Motion Is The Interplay Of Differences, Their Attractions And Repulsions; Life Is Plurality, Death Is Uniformity.

Every Moment Is Nothing Without End.

The Whole Motley Confusion Of Acts, Omissions, Regrets And Hopes Which Is The Life Of Each One Of Us Finds In Death, Not Meaning Or Explanation, But An End.

What Characterizes A Poem Is Its Necessary Dependence On Words As Much As Its Struggle To Transcend Them.