Nothing is made, nothing disappears. The same changes, at the same places, never stopping.

I recreate myself; that is my only power.

I am the shore and the ocean, awaiting myself on both sides.

Wherever I go, I meet myself.

One hand I extend into myself, the other toward others.

You ask how it is possible to be your own father and son. You should seek answers, although it is better to anticipate some, to be the light and dream.

And this that you call solitude is in fact a big crowd.

We don’t know anything about silent sages, buried knowledge, the eye of the mute poet, serene seers, yet how many talkative destroyers, prophets and ideologues, teachers and beautifiers there are on the other side.

It’s not easy to write a poem about a poem.