What The Soul Is To The Body,

Writing Tends To Cheer Me; It Always Soothes My Spirit And Blesses Me With The Gift Of An Innocent, Tender, Childlike Day. It Is The Sensation Of Having Spent A Few Hours In My Homeland, With My Customs, Free Whims, My Total Freedom.

My Grief And My Smile Begin In Your Face, My Son.

All Night I Have Suffered; All Night My Flesh Has Trembled To Bring Forth Its Gift. The Sweat Of Death Is On My Forehead; But It Is Not Death, It Is Life!

You Shall Create Beauty Not To Excite The Senses But To Give Sustenance To The Soul.

The Poet Is An Untier Of Knots, And Love Without Words Is A Knot, And It Drowns.