Poets Don't Finish Poems, They Abandon Them.

There Is Only Beauty / And It Has Only One Perfect Expression / Poetry. All The Rest Is A Lie /except For Those Who Live By The Body, Love, And, That Love Of The Mind, Friendship. For Me, Poetry Takes The Place Of Love, Because It Is Enamored Of Itself, And Because Its Sensual Delight Falls Back Deliciously In My Soul.

You Don't Make A Poem With Ideas, But With Words.

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

Every Soul Is A Melody Which Needs Renewing.

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.