Poetry Is A Religion With No Hope.

If A Poet Has A Dream, It Is Not Of Becoming Famous, But Of Being Believed.

Every Poem Is A Coat Of Arms. It Must Be Deciphered. How Much Blood, How Many Tears In Exchange For These Axes, These Muzzles, These Unicorns, These Torches, These Towers, These Martlets, These Seedlings Of Stars And These Fields Of Blue!

He Has The Manner Of A Giant With The Look Of A Child, A Lazy Activeness, A Mad Wisdom, A Solitude Encompassing The World.

I Have A Piece Of Great And Sad News To Tell You: I Am Dead.

French People Are Italian People In A Bad Mood.