Little Black Horse. Where Are You Taking

The Dancer's Trembling Heart Must Bring Everything Into Harmony, From The Tips Of Her Shoes To The Flutter Of Her Eyelashes, From The Ruffles Of Her Dress To The Incessant Play Of Her Fingers.

The Artist, And Particularly The Poet, Is Always An Anarchist In The Best Sense Of The Word. He Must Heed Only The Call That Arises Within Him From Three Strong Voices: The Voice Of Death, With All Its Foreboding, The Voice Of Love And The Voice Of Art.

Death Laid Its Eggs In The Wound

Woodcutter. Cut My Shadow From Me. Free Me From The Torment Of Being Without Fruit. Why Was I Born Among Mirrors? Day Goes Round And Round Me. The Night Copies Me In All Its Stars. I Want To Live Without My Reflection. And Then Let Me Dream That Ants And Thistledown Are My Leaves And My Parrots.

The Bride, The White Bride Today A Maiden, Tomorrow A Wife.