I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in….

Give me, for my life, all lives, give me all the pain of everyone, I'm going to turn it into hope. Give me all the joys, even the most secret, becaus….

Look around—there's only one thing of danger for you here—poetry..

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

Of everything I have seen, it's you I want to go on seeing: of everything I've touched, it's your flesh I want to go on touching. I love your orange ….

Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss..

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

Love! Love until the night collapses!.

Over your breasts of motionless current, over your legs of firmness and water, over the permanence and the pride of your naked hair I want to be, my ….

What can I say without touching the earth with my hands?.

with your name on my mouth and a kiss that never broke away from yours..

For me writing is like breathing. I could not live without breathing and I could not live without writing..

My soul is an empty carousel at sunset..

Love is a clash of lightnings.

But if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness, if each day a flower climbs up to your lips ….

Tomorrow we will only give them a leaf of the tree of our love, a leaf which will fall on the earth like if it had been made by our lips like a kiss ….

Perhaps the earth can teach us As when everything seems dead And later proves to be alive.

And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture..

Love is short, but forgetting is long..

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

Who do I belong to? How come I mortgaged my being till I don't belong to myself? How come I sold my blood? And who now owns my indecisions, my hands,….