The poet is a liar who always speaks the truth.
When a work appears to be ahead of its time, it is only the time that is behind the work.
Since the day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying.
Poets don't draw. They unravel their handwriting and then tie it up again, but differently.
Here I am trying to live, or rather, I am trying to teach the death within me how to live.
The worst fate of a poet is to be admired without being understood.
I am a lie who always speaks the truth.
After the writer's death, reading his journal is like receiving a long letter.
Silence moves faster when it's going backward.
The poet never asks for admiration; he wants to be believed.