Why did I become a writer? A bird's feather on my windowpane in winter and all at once there arose in my heart a battle of embers never to subside again.
Поэт — хранитель бесчисленных ликов живого.
I believe in the magic and authority of words.
With my teeth
I have seized life
Upon the knife of my youth.
Ночь несется стремительно, как бумеранг, выточенный из наших костей, несется со свистом, со свистом…
A poet should leave traces of his passage, not proofs. Traces alone engender dreams.