I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Someday, somewhere - anywhere, unfailingly, you'll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.

I want To do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

As if you were on fire from within. The moon lives in the lining of your skin.

So I wait for you like a lonely house till you will see me again and live in me. Till then my windows ache.

You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep Spring from coming.

But I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Let us forget with generosity those who cannot love us

Laughter is the language of the soul.

You are like nobody since I love you.

To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.

In this part of the story I am the one who dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you, because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood.

Only do not forget, if I wake up crying it's only because in my dream I'm a lost child hunting through the leaves of the night for your hands....

My feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping but I shall go on living.

And one by one the nights between our separated cities are joined to the night that unites us.

Then love knew it was called love. And when I lifted my eyes to your name, suddenly your heart showed me my way

I am no longer in love with her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I don’t know any other way of loving.

It was at that age that poetry came in search of me.

Love! Love until the night collapses!

I got lost in the night, without the light of your eyelids, and when the night surrounded me I was born again: I was the owner of my own darkness.

In what language does rain fall over tormented cities?

It was my destiny to love and say goodbye.

I hunger for your sleek laugh and your hands the color of a furious harvest. I want to eat the sunbeams flaring in your beauty.

And I, infinitesima l being, drunk with the great starry void, likeness, image of mystery, I felt myself a pure part of the abyss, I wheeled with the stars, my heart broke loose on the wind.

While I'm writing, I'm far away; and when I come back, I've gone.

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.

Love is the mystery of water and a star.

If suddenly you do not exist, If suddenly you are not living, I shall go on living. I do not dare, I do not dare to write it, if you die. I shall go on living.

Give me silence, water, hope Give me struggle, iron, volcanoes.

Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south? Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

At night I dream that you and I are two plants that grew together, roots entwined, and that you know the earth and the rain like my mouth, since we are made of earth and rain.

Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes?

If nothing saves us from death, at least love should save us from life

Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.

Bitter love, a violet with it's crown of thorns in a thicet of spiky passions, spear of sorrow, corolla of rage: how did you come to conquer my soul? What brought you?

I want to see thirst In the syllables, Tough fire In the sound; Feel through the dark For the scream.

Here I came to the very edge where nothing at all needs saying...and every day on the balcony of the sea wings open fire is born and everything is blue again like morning.

My soul is an empty carousel at sunset.

Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood.

Poetry is an act of peace. Peace goes into the making of a poet as flour goes into the making of bread.

And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy.

About me, nothing worse they will tell you, my love, than what I told you

I love you as one loves certain dark things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

In the eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.

I don't want to go on being a root in the dark, vacillating, stretched out, shivering with sleep, downward, in the soaked guts of the earth, absorbing and thinking, eating each day.