You not only are hunted by others, you unknowingly hunt yourself.
From whichever side I start, I think I am in an old place where others have been before me.
A smiling lie is a whirlwind, easy to enter, but hard to escape.
The same word we love and hate, leaves in different directions, taking different paths.
Different languages, the same thoughts; servant to thoughts and their masters.
Nature is an outcry, unpolished truth; the art—a euphemism—tamed wilderness.
I imagined I was God for a millisecond And became speechless for a long time.
Cosmos is God, who whispered the syllable of life.
New Rome will be destroyedBy the attacks of new vandals.God always remains silent.
To hide feelings when you are near crying is the secret of dignity.
It is beautiful to express love and even more beautiful to feel it.
I visited many places, Some of them quite Exotic and far away, But I always returned to myself.
Use the wings of the flying Universe, Dream with open eyes; See in darkness.
There is another alphabet, whispering from every leaf, singing from every river, shimmering from every sky.
I am the shore and the ocean, awaiting myself on both sides.
Since there is no real silence, Silence will contain all the sounds, All the words, all the languages, All knowledge, all memory.
To risk life to save a smile on a face of a woman or a child is the secret of chivalry.
There is no competition of sounds between a nightingale and a violin.
Words rich in meaning can be cheap in sound effects.
Be aware of the high notes, of the blissful faces and their soft messages, and listen for the silent message of a highly decorated gift.
To come to nothing through something is the way to outside from both sides.
Everything that looks too perfect is too perfect to be perfect.
He knows he will be born again, And start fresh anew.
He had an answer to almost everything and he retired at an early age.
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.
Entering a cell, penetrating deep as a flying saucer to find a new galaxy would be an honorable task for a new scientist interested more in the inner state of the soul than in outer space.
To sense the peace of extinguished passionHappiness in not knowing the ultimate knowledge
When the star dies, Its eye closes; tired of watching, It flies back to its first bright dream.
If birth is a manifestation of life, death is another.
Life into death— Life’s other shape, No rupture, Only crossing.
Every thought about death takes a moment of life away.
I lose faith in mathematics, logical and rigid. What with those that even zero doesn’t accept?
I wanted to write the most beautiful poem but that is impossible the world has written its own.
If we were to understand how important it is to say something and say it well, maybe we wouldn’t write a single word, but that would be tragic.
Total knowledge is annihilation Of the desire to see, to touch, to feel The world sensed only through senses And immune to the knowledge without feeling.
Omnipotence and omniscience are the end of power and knowledge.
There are too many literati, yet very few are smart; knowledge is acquired far too easily.
Busy with the ugliness of the expensive success We forget the easiness of free beautyLying sad right around the corner, Only an instant removed, Unnoticed and squandered.
You mark and celebrate errors, transforming failures into successes.
Accidents are not accidents but precise arrivals at the wrong right time.
He did not waste time in a vain search for a place in history.
It is vain futility to analyze the algebra of time.
It is futile to spend time telling stories about the fleetness of each day.
Pose your questions to people and you will get countless useless answers.
Some people complain there are too many people on earth, Some people complain about secret societies, Some people accuse others of not being able to wake up early. Almost all people complain about something.
A hidden spark of the dream sleeps In the forest and waits In the celestial spheres of the brain.
Two forces create eternity – a fairy tale and a dream from the fairy tale.
A big desire is not enough to meet the expectations of lost dreams.
Into the day as by dream I swim To the music of nourished meaning.
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.
It is easy to arrange the words in a story born out of a dream; for a story without a dream, a story itself is not enough.
Nothing is made, nothing disappears. The same changes, at the same places, never stopping.
It is beautiful to talk about beautiful things and even more beautiful to silently gaze at them.
There is something perfect to be found in the imperfect: the law keeps balance through the juxtaposition of beauty, which gains perfection through nurtured imperfection.
Beauty is a cheap word, but beauty remains priceless.
Art is apotheosis; often, the complaint of beauty.
Perfection seems sterile; it is final, no mystery in it; it’s a product of an assembly line.
In trying to be perfect, He perfected the art of anonymity, Became imperceptible And arrived nowhere from nowhere.
We love the imperfect shapes in nature and in the works of art, look for an intentional error as a sign of the golden key and sincerity found in true mastery.
Serious affairs and history are carefully laid snares for the uninformed.
Creators of history always play with our impotence and our ignorance.
History will be erased in the universal purgatory.
Since nothing is absolute There is no absolute silence, Only an appearance Of temporary peace.
To transform a grimace into a sound sounds impossible, yet it is possible to transform a vision into music, to go outside an enslaved personality, to become impersonal by transforming into sand, into water, into light.
My feelings are too loud for words and too shy for the world.
The world is always open, Waiting to be discovered.
This dwarf still observes the world from his own self-imposed height.
I enjoy it when the world smiles; the more smiles, the warmer I am.
If an ancient man saw planes two thousand years ago He would’ve thought they were birds Or angels from another world Or messengers from other planets.
When magic through nerves and reason passes, Imagination, force, and passion will thunder. The portrait of the world is changed.
Arrival in the world is really a departure and that, which we call departure, is only a return.
The world contained in a seed, Determined by its program.
Courage is more important than to be deceived by shallow victory waiting for a delayed defeat.
Every man needs his Siren To check his courage and strength When he hears her song In his travels through the unknown.
While gazing at myself from yourself, I was beautiful.
He will understand when it is too late that it is easier to love.
Long ago we conquered our passions looking at ourselves in the mirror of eternity.
Long ago an uncalled rain fell and a called-upon God stayed equally distant.
One hand I extend into myself, the other toward others.
We will go far away, to nowhere, to conquer, to fertilize until we become tired. Then we will stop and there will be our home.
Through everything I have passed but nowhere I have been.
All dust is the same dust. Temporarily separated To go peacefully And enjoy the eternal nap.
And this that you call solitude is in fact a big crowd.
Mathematics doesn’t care about those beyond the numbers.
Neither alive nor dead; No one lets up, No one wins.
He awaits himself while walking, out of the icy circle to escape.
To jump over centuries In one step is impossible. Jump too high or far, You’ll be way too late.
Vandals listen only when others are stronger.If vandals are equal or strongerTheir word is the last word.
In the biggest and the smallest I sleep but at the same place I stay.
Every star was once darker than the night, before it awoke.
If emptiness is empty, how can something be borne or awaken from it?
What does infinity mean to you? Are you not infinity and yourself?
Will the day tell its secret Before it disappears, Becomes timeless night.
I can see myself before myself—A being through dark scenery.
If emptiness is endless, then everything rests in emptiness.
When everything hurries everywhere, nothing goes anywhere.
You are hurrying to the sweet place, To the nonsense chasing your spirit And in the nonsense you look for answers.
There are no clear borders, Only merging invisible to the sight.
The eyesight for an eagle is what thought is to a man.
There is a pledge of the big and of the small in the infinite.
Although personal calling I sense,Who am I? even if I am, I don’t know.
When within yourself you find the road, the right road will open.
To leave out beautiful sunsets is the secret of good taste.
To keep the air fresh among words is the secret of verbal cleanliness.
To say more while saying less is the secret of being simple.
To expect to be kissed having bad breath is the secret of a fool.
When I want to be reminded of stupidity, especially my own, I turn on the TV.
Based on the law of probability Everything is possible because The sheer existence of possibility Confirms the existence Of impossibility.
To cut and tighten sentences is the secret of mastery.
To understand possible means to understand impossible.
To not say all that can be said is the secret of discipline and economy.
Unjustified ambition kills value,Kills someone else’s desire to fly, Cuts their wings, sucks their air.If there is nothing else, it eats its own life.
We traveled long and forgot why poetry was invented.
To go where no one else has ever gone before is the secret of heroism.
Nothing reminds us of an awakening more than rain.
Possible is more a matter of attitude, A matter of decision, to choose Among the impossible possibilities, When one sound opportunity Becomes a possible solution.
If you are only what you are, You at least have a chance Not to outsmart, But be on a par with yourself And that is worth trying.
To accomplish the perfect perfection, a little imperfection helps.
There is always the question why And there is always life, Which doesn’t need an answer.
To dream on occasion is not dreaming, To love on occasion is not love.
Senses empower limitations, senses expand vision within borders, senses promote understanding through pleasure.
When there is noise and crowds, there is trouble; When everything is silent and perfect, There is just perfection and nothing To fill the air.
Possible impossibility emerges From an impossible possibility, Or possibly, impossible possibility Blooms from the impossibly possible impossibility.
Everything seems impossible And everything seems possible.
There is no born lover, There is no born Don Juan, For we are all lovers.
Too often, feelings arrive too soon, waiting for thoughts that often come too late.
He tries to find the exit from himself but there is no door.
Tell me something only you know and make a new friend.
Before the first before and after the last after, there is night waiting.
Trying too hard to be too good, even when trying to be bad, is too good for the bad, too bad for the good.
A word into the silence thrown always finds its echo somewhere where silence opens hidden lexicons.
They will smile, as they always do when they plan a major attack late in the night.
Although all days are equally long regardless of the season, some days are long not only seasonally but by rewards they offer.
Our desire to say more grows bigger and what to say about it, except that saying is not always about saying, growing is not always about growing.
Forget decorated generals, tell me about Private Ryan.
For a moment at least, be a smile on someone else’s face.
Strangers are endearing because you don’t know them yet.
They blossomed, they did not talk about blossoming.
It is easy to see the glow but hard to recognize the awakening of silence.
Beyond all vanities, fights, and desires, omnipotent silence lies.
We like to admit to only that which already glows, although it is nobler to support brightness before it glows, not afterwards.
If what we think of ourselves were true, the planet would overflow with geniuses.
The light teaches you to convert life into a festive promenade.
Is it possible to write a poem or are these words just screams of outlaws exiled to the desert?
Whatever others may say, they say it to deceive and comfort themselves, not help you.
A breeze, a forgotten summer, a smile, all can fit into a storefront window.
We hear only our own voices, still echoes returning to our emptiness.
Either all lights are turned off or one inner light is missing.
How many unuttered words died in the heads of those for whom a word was too expensive.
We forget old stories, but those stories remain the same.
We measure everything by ourselves with almost a necessary conceit.
How alive is thought, invisible, yet without thought there is no sight.
We built tall buildings, but we have not become any taller.
Truth is hard-hearted and unrelenting, too clear, precise; a lie is much more imaginative.
After Homer and Dante, is a whole century of creating worth one Shakespeare?
His Highness was always confident in his statements, especially about what he viewed for the first time.
Now that we are all so smart, we don’t easily find resolutions.
Holy books are an insult to a God with good intentions.
He did not profess to anybody how to reach others without professing.
Wherever there is somebody else, a war is not far away.
If you could have walked on the planet before humans lived here, maybe the Ivory Coast would have seemed more beautiful than La Côte d’Azur.
When the long bygone Lee Po wanted to say something, he could do it with only a few words.
Infinity is the end. End without infinity is but a new beginning.
Knighthood lies above eternity; it doesn’t live off fame, but rather deeds.
Existence is the end of endless eternity without a beginning or an end.
Sun is a hearthstone, a merry-go-round of extinguished hearthstones.
Real geniuses would like that what we think of ourselves is true.
Through words to the meaning of thoughts with no words.
Absolute is a game with only one player where Absolute forgets itself so it would have a reason to fulfill the motion while returning.
A word was more valuable to them when they were not sure of its value. Since they became famous, their word has been more expensive but its value is less.
We don’t know who was tricked by whom. Did the writer deceive the word, or did the word deceive the writer?
A number is still very accurate, but its role is changed.In the changed role this number enriches the silence.
In its proper role, a number counts the missing words.
A word is not filling in the gaps, but the fertilization of silence.
Everything and nothing are the same in the Absolute.
Burning the witch Giordano Bruno is one more wound inflicted on Christ’s body.
Many writers were better before they became famous.
There are literary works that speak for themselves and there are writers who boast through work.
Anyone who writes can be called a writer because they write.
What are all these writers fighting for? For their own victory or for the victory of their profession?
A poem that is itself a name does not yearn for the name of its creator, but shines from its name alone.
A poem does not radiate from the name, but the name emanates from the poem.
The name does not deserve the poem, but the poem deserves the name.
In a real poem a sound does not swallow a letter, but a letter swallows a sound.
An unrewarded value is more valuable than a reward with no value.
Knowing how to dream is more important than the story, because the story tells itself.
The length of novels, poems and stories, is measured by the number of missing words; a thousand pages become one, one becomes a thousand.
There are anonymous poems and poets without poems.
Names sound nice because no one peeks behind the cover to see the sad face of a poem crying for meaning, while the name of the creator proudly smiles from the title.
Neruda had his first dream, First meeting with the Moon and the Sun In sunny La Mancha, hiding in his heart,Where he learned how to sing like a nightingale.
Is my victory real, does the winner adorned with a laurel wreath ask this question? Do I deserve victory or did I steal it from someone who is more worthy of victory?
Bureaucracy is a huge beast; deeply rooted, it exists even among artists; it’s an almost losing battle against it.
Marquez was not born in Colombia.He was born in Macondo, And his Macondo is his La Mancha.
Quixote shines from Lorca and Picasso, From Dalí and El Greco, From the gloomy ‘View of Toledo.’ He was born before Cervantes.
Almost as a rule, political dissidents were writers.
It is not important what happens where; Where we fall or rise, What we conquer or lose, How big or small we are.