In the secret of night, my prayer climbs like the liana, My prayer is, and I am not. It grows, and I perish. I have only my hard breath, my reason and my madness. I cling to the vine of my prayer. I tend it at the root of the stalk of night.

Speech is our second possession, after the soul-and perhaps we have no other possession in this world.

I have all that I lost and I go carrying my childhood like a favorite flower that perfumes my hand.

I have a faithful joy and a joy that is lost. One is like a rose, the other, a thorn. The one that was stolen I have not lost.

The poet is an untier of knots, and love without words is a knot, and it drowns.