Every Soul Is A Melody Which Needs

It Is In Front Of The The Paper That The Artist Creates Himself.

Everything In The World Exists In Order To End Up As A Book.

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.

In A Museum In London There Is An Exhibit Called "the Value Of Man": A Long Coffinlike Box With Lots Of Compartments Where They've Put Starch Phosphorus Flour Bottles Of Water And Alcohol And Big Pieces Of Gelatin. I Am A Man Like That.

The Pure Work Implies The Disappearance Of The Poet As Speaker, Who Hands Over To The Words.