Buscar sinceridad en unas memorias carece de sentido. Mejor sería preguntarse qué versión de uno mismo y del mundo ha escogido el autor, dado que siempre hay posibilidad de elegir.
But any knowledge that doesn’t lead to new questions quickly dies out: it fails to maintain the temperature required for sustaining life.
But in the language of poetry, where every word is weighed, nothing is usual or normal. Not a single stone and not a single cloud above it.
En el tercer planeta del sol la conciencia limpia y tranquila es síntoma primordial de animalidad.
Eve from the rib, Venus from foam,Minerva from Jupiter’s head –All three were more real than me.When he isn’t looking at me,I try to catch my reflectionon the wall. And I see the nail where a picture...
I’ve wanted to write about them for a long while,but it’s a tricky subject,always put off for laterand perhaps worthy of a better poet,
Ningún día se repite,ni dos noches son iguales,
No he vivido más que tú, sino sólo lo bastante para pensar de lejos.
STARI PROFESORUpitala sam ga za stara dobra vremena,kada smo bili veoma mladi,naivni, ushićeni, glupi, nespremni.Malo je ostalo od toga, s izuzetkom mladosti- Odgovorio je.Pitala sam ga da li i dalje...
When they said he didn’t exist, he couldn’t die of grief, so he had to be born. He’s already out there living somewhere; he blinks his little eyes and grows.
Някои обичат поезиятаНякои - обаче не всички.Даже не повечето, а по-малко.Без училищата, където я учат,и без самите поети,такива ще са едно на хиляда.
شكراً لك يا قلبي/ لأنني استيقظتُ من جديد/ ولو أنّ اليوم هو الأحد/ يوم الراحة/ إلا أن تحت الضلوع/ تتواصل الحركة المعتادة لما قبل العيد
Solitude is very important in my work as a mode of inspiration, but isolation is not good in this respect. I am not writing poetry about isolation.
Die - you can't do that to a cat...Something doesn't startat its usual time.Something doesn't happenas it should.Someone was always, always here,
I let myself be invented, modeled on my own reflection in his eyes. I dance, dance, dance in the stir of sudden wings. The
I've wanted to write about them for a long while,but it's a tricky subject,always put off for laterand perhaps worthy of a better poet,even more stunned by the world than I.But time is short. I write.
Memory Finally Memory’s finally found what it was after. My mother has turned up, my father has been spotted. I dreamed up a table and two chairs. They sat. They were mine again, alive again for me. T...
A che serve qui chiedersi
Even if you bar my way,even if you stare me in the face,I'll pass you by on the chasm's edge, finer than a hair.
Las aves domésticas se distinguen de las de corral en que las guardamos en jaulas exclusivamente para satisfacer el placer estético. El nuestro, claro. Del placer que sienten las aves condenadas a ver...
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