It Is In Front Of The The

Dreams Have As Much Influences As Actions.

Everything That Is Sacred And That Wishes To Remain So Must Envelop Itself In Mystery.

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

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.

Every Soul Is A Melody Which Needs Renewing.