Imagine A Painter Crucified By His Subject!

I Want A Bedroom Near The Sky, An Astrologer's Cave Where I Can Fashion Eclogues That Are Chaste And Grave.

Death Is A New Office Building Filled With Modern Furniture, A Wise Thing, But Which Has No Purpose For Us.

The First Year Was Like Icing. Then The Cake Started To Show Through.

I Always Thought That Writing Poetry Was In Itself A Political Act.

Where Then Shall Hope And Fear Their Objects Find?