The World Exists To End Up In

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.

Poetry Is The Language Of A State Of Crisis.

A Throw Of The Dice Will Never Abolish Chance.

All Thoughts Emit A Throw Of Dice

Every Soul Is A Melody Which Needs Renewing.