Poetry Is The Language Of A State

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.

The Flesh Is Sad, Alas, And I Have Read All The Books.

Poetry Is The Language Of A State Of Crisis.

Paintings Are Painted With Paint, Not With Ideas.

O Naked Flower Of My Lips, You Lie! I Await A Thing Unknown Or Perhaps, Unaware Of The Mystery And Your Cries You Give, O Lips, The Supreme Tortured Moans Of A Childhood Groping Among Its Reveries To Sort Out Finally Its Cold Precious Stones.