My soul is a secret orchestra, but I don’t know what instruments – strings, harps, cymbals, drums – strum and bang inside me. I only know myself as the symphony.

..... Every effort is a crime, because every gesture is a dead dream.

..... Your hands are captive doves. Your lips are silent doves (that come to coo before my eyes).

All of your gestures are birds. You’re a swallow when you stoop, a condor when you look at me, and an eagle in your disdainful lady’s ecstasies. I look at you and see a pond full of flapping wings .....

You are nothing but wings .....

..... Rain, rain, rain…

Groaning, unrelenting rain .....

My body makes even my soul shiver, not with a coldness that’s in the air, but with a coldness that comes from watching the rain.

..... Every pleasure is a vice, because to seek pleasure is what everyone does in life, and the only black vice is to do what everyone else does.