Love Beauty It Is The Shadow Of

What The Soul Is To The Body, So Is The Artist To His People.

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!

Now I Am Nothing But A Veil; All My Body Is A Veil Beneath Which A Child Sleeps.

I Have All That I Lost And I Go Carrying My Childhood Like A Favorite Flower That Perfumes My Hand.

I Write Poetry Because I Can’t Disobey The Impulse; It Would Be Like Blocking A Spring That Surges Up In My Throat. For A Long Time I’ve Been The Servant Of The Song That Comes, That Appears And Can’t Be Buried Away. How To Seal Myself Up Now?…it No Longer Matters To Me Who Receives What I Submit. What I Carry Out Is, In That Respect, Greater And Deeper Than I, I Am Merely The Channel.