“I prepare my portrait for my woman to hang on a wall when I die.she says: Is there a wall to hang it on?I say: We'll build a room for it. Where? In any house.”

“Where can I write my latest account of the body's incarnation?It's the end of what was bound to end! Where is that which ends?Where can I free myself of the homeland in my body?”

“Where can I free myself of the homeland in my body?”

“I see what I want of Love... I see horses making the meadow dance, fifty guitars sighing, and a swarm of bees suckling the wild berries, and I close my eyes until I see our shadow behind this dispossessed place... I see what I want of people: their desire to long for anything, their lateness in getting to work and their hurry to return to their folk... and their need to say: Good Morning...”

“Please take your time. I want you to kill me slowly so I can write my lastpoem to my wife's heart. They laughed, and took from meonly the words dedicated to my wife's heart.”

“My love, I fear the silence of your hands.”

“I love you so, you are so much yourself!He is so afraid of his soul:no "I" now but she. She is now within me.And no "she" now but only my fragile "I"At the end of this song, how much I fear that my dreammay not see its dream in her.”