Let The Earth Look At Me, And

I Write Poetry Because I Can’t Disobey The Impulse; It Would Be Like Blocking A Spring That Surges Up In My Throat. For A Long Time I’ve Been The Servant Of The Song That Comes, That Appears And Can’t Be Buried Away. How To Seal Myself Up Now?…it No Longer Matters To Me Who Receives What I Submit. What I Carry Out Is, In That Respect, Greater And Deeper Than I, I Am Merely The Channel.

Love That Stammers, That Stutters, Is Apt To Be The Love That Loves Best.

You Shall Create Beauty Not To Excite The Senses But To Give Sustenance To The Soul.

Speech Is Our Second Possession, After The Soul-and Perhaps We Have No Other Possession In This World.

My Grief And My Smile Begin In Your Face, My Son.