In Our Eyes The Roads Are Endless.

The Moon Carries The Masks Of Meningitis Into Bedrooms, Fills The Wombs Of Pregnant Women With Cold Water And, As Soon As I'm Not Careful, Throws Handfuls Of Grass On My Shoulders.

In The Garden I Will Die. In The Rosebush They Will Kill Me.

Death, Vicious Death, Leave A Green Branch For Love.

I Will Always Be On The Side Of Those Who Have Nothing And Who Are Not Even Allowed To Enjoy The Nothing They Have In Peace.

There Is Nothing More Poetic And Terrible Than The Skyscrapers' Battle With The Heavens That Cover Them. Snow, Rain, And Mist Highlight, Drench, Or Conceal The Vast Towers, But Those Towers, Hostile To Mystery And Blind To Any Sort Of Play, Shear Off The Rain's Tresses And Shine Their Three Thousand Swords Through The Soft Swan Of The Fog.